


After

by IEatBooksForTea



Series: After [1]
Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Josh Lives, Mystery, Plot Twists, Post-Canon, Romance, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-05 01:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 54
Words: 58,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5356649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IEatBooksForTea/pseuds/IEatBooksForTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It didn't end. Nothing ever ends. The survivors escaped the mountain. But the events are still haunting them. Faced with Mike's trial for Emily's murder, suddenly they discover that someone is watching them. Stalking them. And someone is sending them clues. Feeling trapped, will Chris and Ashley, Sam, Jessica and the others be able to escape what is haunting them? Or who?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chris

It's found me. My throat chokes as its spidery limb snaps around the door frame, my body tensing, sweating, breaking.

I scramble backwards up the bed, the sharp cold of the wooden headboard sticky against skin of my back. I hear Sam's stern voice in my head snapping, yelling for me to stay still.

But it can still see me. It clicks it's neck, it's fangs protruding from its scabby jaw, it's limbs scuttling towards me. It enjoys taunting me, watching me squirm, it's eyes toying with the sweat that drips down like wax from my forehead.

No matter what I do, it can see me. It can always see me, sensing my body heat, every drip of my breath. The twitch of my eyes. My breathing is too erratic for me to stay still. I'm panicking, crying out to anyone, anything!

The creature twists it's neck unnaturally as it pulls it close to me, it's throat cracking with a bird-like screech.

"No," I whimper, helpless as I feel it's rotten breath crawl over my skin, scuttling into my mouth.

I desperately yank my arms to protect myself, to do something, but they're twisted into the headboard, the wood curled and coiled like trees around my limbs.

My throat erupts with a scream, my body shaking uncontrollably, my eyes desperately trying to dart away from the monster's face, to shield my mind from the death I know is coming. But they are locked on it. On its face.

It rears closer to me, to my face, it's fangs inches from my nose. It snaps it's mouth open to screech-

"Chris?"

It speaks. It's has stolen Ashley's voice, like she's trapped inside it.

"Chris?!"

I stare in fear as the wendigo's waxy skin twists and morphs into the features of Ashley, her eyes staring with watery tears at mine.

"Nooooo!" I scream, wanting to get her out of there. Or out of my mind, wherever she was trapped.

And then she snaps her jaw open, the bone dislocating, as she lunges to rip my throat out-

"Chris!"

I jerk awake.

She's sitting there, worry creased across her face as her hand reaches to cup my sweat stained cheek.

"Ashley," I breathe, capturing her hand in mine and pulling her down into a hug. "I'm so glad you're safe." My words are swallowed up by a gulp, my throat dry and relieved.

"Of course I'm safe," she insists, as if my words were the most idiotic ones she'd ever heard. Hearing her sarcasm now couldn't be better. It assures me she's herself, she's unchanged. It is only my mind that is messed up.

She pulls my head back from her shoulder only to cup my cheeks like a nurse and inspect my weepy eyes as if she could find some kind of cure in them. A cure for the madness inside of me.

I simply gaze back, swallowing hard, watching for her deduction.

"It was them again," I finally croak, finding my hand reaching up to touch hers.

Her eyes, for a brief moment, shiver with fear, a splinter of a past memory - one that feels all too close. Then; "They're dead, Chris." She seems to be trying to convince herself of the same fact, her eyes steadying. But her voice shakes.

"Yeah," I breathe out, nodding, my own method of convincing. "They're dead."

"They can't get us here," she repeats as we slowly adjust to our mantra, the words that keep us sane.

My body instantly finds the routine, my mouth repeating her words.

"They're dead. They can't get us here," I chant along with her as our eyes are locked. The connection we share is the one thing that brings me back to life here. It keeps me saying the words. "It's all over."

Once we finish, she nods quietly, assuring me and herself. Silence wafts in, covering us. It is a blanket, protective. When there are no sounds, there are no monsters.

The bed covers rustle as I lean forward and tentatively caress my lips against hers. A thank you. She is the only one keeping me sane, keeping me alive inside the prison of my skull.

 


	2. Sam

_Just go in. It's not that hard._

The words are meant to convince me. They are designed to will me forward, to take those imminent steps into the building in front of me, a tall, tangled structure that looks like it's recycled out of shopping cart metal. But inside that building is the ringing of me success. It holds all my hopes and dreams within the fists of its walls. All I have to do is step forward, hold my head up high and claim that opportunity.

But my feet can't move. They're cemented as one with the ground, the concrete melting and churning around them, clutching onto my ankles like wendigo jaws.

I flinch. The thought crawls up my skin. It jerks me out of the impending nightmare.

 _No._  I'm fed up of this. Frustrated, irritated at my mind for constantly flicking back to those times. It's a traitor, a betrayer, trying to sabotage my interview.

I won't let it.

So, with a determined, deep breath, I set my ankles free from the grip of the ground and strut into the New York Times tower.

* * *

"I have to say, Sam," the man behind the desk nods, looking engulfed by intrigue. He glances up above his glasses to add, "I can call you Sam, right?"

I smile and agree, my stomach twisting and churning with nerves. The smile on his face is misleading, curved in an unnatural way. I can't tell what's real anymore.

"Your résumé is very impressive," he taps the paper in front of him thoughtfully. I watch with biting breath as a stray black hair escapes from his comb-over and wisps past his ear. "An independent blog earning two thousand of readers a month.  _And_  a popular newsletter."

I let out a puff of air, letting his words relax my features into a relieved smile. Maybe he's telling the truth. Maybe there's no catch for this and his words are only leading to success.

"But..."

My heart stops.

His hand reaches for his coffee cup, positioned perfectly between a stack of paper and his telephone.

The beating in my chest doesn't start again until his lips have left the rim, the slurping sound of coffee slithering down his throat making me shiver.

"Coffee?" He offers me a sip of his cup as if it's the most natural thing he could have done in that moment. The most natural thing would have been him offering me the job.

I politely shake my head, trying to hide my nerves behind a stiff smile.

He clears his throat before replacing the cup where it was and fixing his eyes back on the paper. "But," he resumes. "Your content is debatable."

I open my lips to protest but he quickly eyes me above the rims of his glasses.

"Reports on monster attacks? Shape-shifters?  _Wendigos_? My dear Miss Spencer," he raises his eyebrows like that simple movement makes his point for him. "Sam," he corrects. "It's all mythological. Made-up." He waves his hand in the air like my stories are just like that, a puff of smoke. "And I'm afraid we don't have time for  _fiction_  here. Good day."

I grip my fists underneath his desk. Unbelievable. That's what they always call it, and that's exactly what I feel about his words right now. He dismissed it, so quickly, based on prepositions.

I can feel a growl at the back of my throat but I push it down. No matter how much evidence I pile up, no matter how many personal accounts and photos I recover, someone like him will never consider it to be the truth.

I was right.

He waves his hand to the door, dismissing me like I was only a rat scuttling across his floor, making no impact at all.

The chair squeaks as I push myself out of it. "Thank you for your time," I nod, recovering as much politeness as I can in my voice.

My footsteps are hollow as they pace to the door of his office. "Oh, Sam?" They freeze.

"Yes?" I replace my scowl with a stiff smile, the very flickering of hope kindling at the bottom of my stomach.

"I heard you're involved with the court case tomorrow," he smiles politely, a smile that only belongs in a coffee shop to be shared amongst discovered acquaintances. Not from a man who is trampling on my dream. "Good luck."

With that, my hope shrivels up like the wood it was burning. He snuffs it out.

"Thank you," my voice reciprocates, barely squeezing anything out that's beyond robotic.

I find the door, gripping it's handle. But, just before I twist it, my head automatically turns back to the man who has shattered my dreams. "Oh," I add. "And you better watch how you drink that coffee." I smile sweetly, gathering up my final blow. "It might be  _fictional_."

I barely catch the look of bewilderment he throws at his coffee before I storm out of the room with as much dignity as I can recover, crumbling underneath my eyes.

 


	3. Jessica

"Don't cut through your mountain!" I declare victoriously as the eyes of three thousand people are fixed on me. "The tunnels and mines you choose to dig will be your downfall!"

Each click of my stilettos across the stage stabs each of my words, sending their impact hurling. I can feel the crowd enthralled, their breaths hanging on my every syllable. "I made it through one of those mines," I spin on my heel to fix my eyes like a dart on their faces. "But it wasn't easy. I didn't escape unscathed." My words are dramatic as I pass my gaze from one face to the other. They are itching in their seats, like mini volcanoes ready to burst. Perfect.

My shirt hangs low over my cleavage - I had chosen it especially just to frame the clear, X-shaped scars riven across my chest. Well, not just for that. There are men here who hold the cards of my future in their grubby, oily hands. If I play to my strengths, there could be a promotion in it for me.

Not could. Will.

"Shortcuts," I finalise, hearing the creak of audience members hitching forward, hinging on the end of their seats and on the cliff of my words. "Only lead to destruction." I click my tongue. "You," I add, gearing up my final weapon, "Are better than a shortcut. Thank you."

My bow triggers an eruption of cheers as bodies shoot to their feet, hands clapping wildly. With a smug smile, I parade off the stage, hearing a very recognisable, low chuckle in my earpiece. "You did it again, Jess," the voice attempts to flatter me.

"As always, Greg," I smile slyly as if he can see me, where I'm slipping backstage and grabbing for my water bottle.

"Bravo," he chuckles rhythmically as I unscrew the bottle top and gulp down a load of water to soothe my throat.

"Jessica?"

I almost choke, the water shooting out of my mouth and spraying quite spectacularly over the sound guy. He immediately glares at me though knows well enough not to attack. I shrug. At least it didn't spray on the electrical equipment.

"What are you doing here?" I glare at the man in front of me, tapping my heel impatiently. I don't have time for this. I refuse to let my stomach knot up with nerves as I wait for him to respond.

The man clasps his hands around his briefcase handle, swinging it confidently in front of him. He is far too pristine for his own good, his jet black suit chiseled perfectly into sharp points at his shoulders. "He insisted that I visit you personally."

I roll my eyes, using it as an excuse to divert my gaze, to calm my heart and my twisted intestines. I can't bear to see him. It's too risky - too many memories are creased into lines on his forehead and sewn into ends of his receding hairline. I'm not prepared to burst open that canal.

"He needs to see you," the man narrows his eyes, determined. Of course, Mike wouldn't hire some half-assed lawyer.

"No," I flip my hard gaze back to the lawyer before strutting past him.

My experiences on top of that mountain have been concealed. Only tiny details - insignificant details, ones that don't contain my heart - have been strategically guided out for my motivational speeches, my career. I can't handle anymore - and seeing Mike again would push me over the edge.

"He says you owe him," the lawyer coughed, seeming uncomfortable with resorting to blackmail, "For rehab."

I spin around in one swift movement and set my sights on the man like a hawk. "So he's blackmailing me now?" I scoff, shaking my head as if I couldn't believe it. But I definitely can.

"Fine," I bite my word as it spins out of my word. My tone is sharp, a dagger, as are my heels as I take strong, purposeful steps towards the lawyer. "But on my terms. My time."

The lawyer nods as if he's understood.

"There's a car waiting outside for you right now," he adds nonchalantly, turning around and vacating the building like a ghost.

I sigh dramatically. So much for my terms.


	4. Chris

My fingers tap out a nervous, erratic rhythm against the cold wood, the cool, white plastic of the phone sticking to the skin of my cheek.

"What did you say?" I ask incredulously, my eyes barely catching a glimpse of someone I used to know amongst the madness of his pupils.

"I said," Josh drawls as he lolls his head to the side, a disturbing smile on his cracked lips. The phone on his end almost slips out of his hand. "Bang bang Ashley."

My hand snaps into a fist. If it wasn't for the glass separating us, I would have slammed it straight into his face.

What stupidity had brought me here? Had some insanity seeped into my skin when I had been tugged by his pleading words on the other end of the phone? I should have listened to Ashley's anxious voice begging me not to go.

"What?" Josh blinks, innocence in his irises. I can't tell if it's real or if he's faking it. I don't want to know either way. "You're banging, Ashley." He says it like it's a fact, like he's proud of himself. "I just thought," his words slur as his lips twist into a grin, "That you'd want the chance to thank me."

I flinch. Anger itches at my limbs, my body shifting uncomfortably in my seat. I can feel my eyes darken, refusing to let remorse dilute them. Not now.

"Don't talk about her like that," I glare, slamming my palm against the counter top, alerting a nearby guard. I send the man a sheepish, apologetic look, stalling him in his tracks, before reverting my eyes back to the prisoner in front of me.

"Whoa," Josh flings his hands up into the air like he's surrendering, the phone receiver flying out of them. I narrow my eyes as I see him mouth an 'oops' and his shoulders shake as he chortles and his eyes twist with a kind of insane humour. He scrambles to pick it up before pressing it to his ear again. "Alright, Cochise."

The word sparks regret in my stomach, sizzling through my veins right to my fingertips. I wish I didn't feel so sorry for him. It hurts, seeing him like this, fighting with the memory I have of the old him; the him I was friends with. The one I still am friends with, somewhere buried deep inside my head. He had died with the pig corpse he had sliced in half inside that fake body.

The man in front of me is not Josh. Not anymore. He's been possessed by gnarled revenge. I wish I had been there to shield him.

I shake my head, my energy dissolving, my eyelids drooping. "I..." There's no point in arguing. No matter how many times I insist Ashley and I would have found our own words to confess to each other eventually, Josh is convinced in his sick plan. Had it all been a scheme, a deranged kind of blind date to set the two of them up? I almost choke on my saliva, horror and ruefulness tightening around my throat as I look up to the man I used to call my best friend.

_What happened to you?_

"Thanks, Josh," I say quietly, the tiniest sliver of sarcasm smearing the rim of my words.

The feet of my chair scrape against the floor as I weakly shove it back, replacing the receiver and pushing myself to my feet. My eyes avoid Josh's face as his words calling me back are muffled through the glass.

"You can't do this to me!"

I freeze, hearing the familiar high pitched voice echo against the walls of the narrow room.

"You're ruining everything!"

The voice wills my feet forward, curiosity tugging at me. I weave past other prison visitors, acutely aware of the eyes of the guards tracking my movement. I politely smile to one of them, my skin stretched unnaturally around my lips.

A flash of blonde hair yanks my gaze towards it, my eyes widening in quick succession.

Jessica huffs her handbag from beside her seat before snapping to her feet, jerking her cheek to face the unfortunate soul she was abandoning behind the glass.

"Have a nice life," she sneers to them, though I doubt he can hear her through the window. Her hands tug at the bottom of her suit jacket, pursing her lips as she straightens her pencil skirt. Her fingers rescue the few hairs that have been torn out of her neat ponytail by her frustration, before she places a constructed smile onto her face and saunters forward.

And it drops at the sight of me.

She breathes in sharply, for a second her eyes frozen on me, her pupils shivering.

"Jess," I say slowly, hopefully, feeling an overwhelming gratitude at seeing her. The last time I had set eyes on her, she looked like she had been mauled to pieces, barely a shrivel of herself left. A tentative smile tries itself on my lips.

"Just my luck," she scoffs suddenly, snapping her eyes away from mine, setting them on the door behind me. But her strong words contrast with the shaking, unsettled hands that clutch around the handle of her handbag.

Her words almost make me stumble backwards, just as she paces past me. "Here," she says suddenly, shoving a piece of paper into my hand. " _You_  can take the dog." Then she flashes a look of shameless betrayal to the man she had been visiting before jerking her chin up and marching out of the room.

Well. It's an improvement.

I blink down in bewilderment as I unfold the paper in my hand, staring down at the letters spelling out an address and the name  _WOLFIE_.

My eyes lift only to catch sight of Mike's watching me from the seat across from Jessica's, hopelessness in his eyes.

With a reluctant nod, I lift the paper to show him and mouth out, 'I got it'.

 


	5. Sam

"Who knew," I coo, admiring the deep, trusting eyes watching mine as I crouch down the scratch the wolf behind his ears, "You were exactly what I needed today?"

"Apparently," Chris hums, stuffing his hands deep in his jean pockets. "They were going to put him down."

I mock gasp as I cup the poor animal's silky, grey jaw between my palms, nuzzling my nose in close. "How could they do that to you, buddy?" Poor animal; just because his owner was held in custody over a pretty serious crime, didn't mean the wolf needed to be punished as well. I feel a stirring resentment at the pit of my stomach towards the vets who so willingly volunteered to put an end to this beautiful animal's life.

My irritation isn't helped by my building exasperation at the day I've been having so far.

"I was hoping," Chris coughs, averting his eyes and I stretch to my feet, the wolf obediently collapsing in a heap by my side, "That you'd be able to take him?" He looks stiff in the hallway of the flat he shares with Ashley. It isn't exactly in the best state with wallpaper peeling crudely off the walls, the unpolished, wooden flooring creaking underneath my feet. If it wasn't for Ashley, I'm sure the rooms would be bare of any kind of of colour at all.

I sigh, reluctant to accept Chris' offer. Of course I'd been half expecting this when Chris phoned me over today, his words rambling about a wolf. I had almost laughed down the receiver, imagining the animal-reluctant Chris trying his best to coax the wolf into following him.

"Chris, I-"

"We can't afford to look after him," Chris protested, his wide and desperate eyes pleading with me. He knew exactly how to pull at my heart strings, almost as much as the wolf did. "I'm getting minimum wage as it is and Ashley's job-"

"Alright," I try a reassuring smile, nodding reluctantly. I know Chris isn't one to be comfortable talking about his financial difficulties. The two of them have been in debt since both of them graduated university, student loans swallowing them whole. The physiological treatment hadn't exactly been cheap either. "But how long for?"

Chris shrugs. "Till Mike gets released?"

"That could be forever!" I stare at him incredulously.

His eyes lock onto me, shocked bewilderment in them. "You don't think he'll win the case?"

I let out an exasperated sigh. "Of course he won't win the case. Do you really think a jury is going to listen to stories about wendigos?" The editor of the New York Times certainly didn't.

Chris opens his mouth to protest but, before any words can be formed, realisation folds over his features. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, nodding grudgingly. Had any of us ever expected that such creatures existed in the first place? It was only the power of seeing their skin-peeled, rotten faces that had convinced us. It is only the memories of their mouldy breath crawling along our skin, the sound of their screeching grating inside our ears that reminds us it had ever happened in the first place.

"Besides," I sigh, dropping my gaze to the floor. The wolf looks calmly up at me. If only we all felt exactly like he does. "He did actually pull the trigger."

Chris looks uncomfortable, tugging at the collar of his shirt with his index finger. "Yeah," he drags the word out before biting his lower lip, scratching at the back of his neck.

We all regret it ever happened.

"Chris?"

The familiar voice pulls my gaze away from him to a nearby doorway, Ashley's shadow lingering there.

"Yeah?" He turns to his girlfriend, worry creasing his face. Does this happen often? Her eyes plead, 'I need you.' I don't think anyone has needed Chris as much as she does right now.

He nods as if he knows, promising with his eyes that he'll come to her soon. Thank goodness they have each other at this time. They cling to each other to keep themselves stable. I don't know if I'm jealous of them or relieved I don't have what they need.

"Hey, Ash," I try a smile, lifting my hand to greet her. She braves herself to smile back, her eyes filled with a kind of unbreakable anxiousness. She tries too hard to stay strong.

"When are you going to ask her?" I probe carefully once Ashley has slips back into the room.

Chris shares a sheepish smile with me before shrugging. "I don't really think it's really the right time right now, what with the case and everything-"

I sigh, rolling my eyes and shaking my head playfully. "You never stop putting these things off, do you?"

He grins apologetically as if he knows exactly what I mean. But his eyes flicker back to the doorway Ashley disappeared behind and I can see the worry flickering in his eyes. She is priority right now... he has plenty of time to ask her.

That's what we all thought before our lives were all threatened in front of our eyes.

Chris turns back to me, giving an apologetic smile. "I've got to..." He explains, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the doorway Ashley has disappeared through. "I'll see you tomorrow, Sam?" He offers.

I nod before crouching down and patting the wolf up from where he's reclining on the floor. Chris disappears within the room that holds Ashley as I guide my new friend through the door. And, I don't know if I imagine it, but as I'm leaving, I barely hear Chris and Ashley's distant voices repeating these words over and over; "They're dead. They can't get us here. It's all over."

 


	6. Interlude 1 - Mike

The memory of his inky black eyes shuddering with twisted reality hovers at the back of Mike's mind. He's so far away but it feels like Josh is pressed on the other side of Mike's cell wall... in the room... in his skull.

Last time they had interacted, after Jessica had huffed off, Josh had shot him a wide eyed, wonky smile.

"I know," he had grinned, tilting his head unnaturally to the side.

"Know what?" Mike had barked back, impatience bubbling.

Josh had simply narrowed his eyes knowingly, his smirk widening, stretching his skin. "I knoooooowwww." And then he had smacked his lips together, the sound popping. "I hear things, Mikey."

"I don't have time for this," Mike had sighed, threatened by the insanity clanging on the cell bars of Josh's eyes. He had swivelled on his heels just as a nearby guard had tugged at his elbow. He shook the the guard's hand away, glaring a 'I can walk by myself' look at him.

And just as he'd began to follow the other prisoners back to the detainment cells, he had heard Josh's incessant popping - even as the boy was being taken to his solitary confinement - which slowly graduated to a soft muttering of "bang, bang."

* * *

Mike slams his palm against his cell wall, his fingers shuddering, shoving Josh's face out of his head. He can't start getting distracted, not when they were going to collect him for the trial soon.

He lets out a shaky breath - the trial had crept up on him, hiding in the shadows before it had pounced on him, digging its claws in his back.

He closes his eyes, Emily's gaping mouth haunting underneath his eyelids, her eye socket hollowing out as the bullet shot through it-

Mike flinches just as his cell door heaves open, his eyes flashing open.

"You have a visitor," the guard announces, Mike turning to face him. Was it visitor hours already? Had Jessica come back to apologise, had Chris come to tell him about Wolfie?

Mike nods his head, groggily following the guard out the door and through the dark, metallic corridors of the prison towards the visitor room.

Had his lawyer come to debrief him one more time?

All thoughts are shattered as Mike is lead to his seat only to be met with the vengeful, obsidian eyes of Matt behind the glass.

 


	7. Jessica

I can't go. He says I should, he demands it, but I can't. It's too soon. It's always too soon.

My hollow eyes watch the generic news report on the 22" TV screen, tracking the movement of Mike as he's escorted into the courthouse, his rough body smoothed out by a black, pin-stripe suit.

"It'll be good for publicity, Jess," he said on the phone. I kept insisting, kept coming up with excuses, my desperation piling up with every word. "Your career is built on your... experience with that incident. Your fans expect you to support the other... victims."

He doesn't believe me. He never has, not when the supernatural is involved. Greg has always been one for the literal, the scientific, the here and now.

But he saw me huddled up in that rehab centre and his eyes had flashed with money. Every morning I wake up and half expect him to phone me with the offer of a book deal. Of course, it would never just be an  _offer_ \- it would be a demand.

I can see the title now; Torn - the autobiography of a woman who barely escaped the clutches of death.

Another generic book title.

The news report is still focused on the outside of the courthouse, the man in front of the camera repeating needless words over and over into his microphone; "Claims of monster attacks apparently led to the murder of this young girl. Will her killer be given the justice he deserves or-" I grab the remote and stab the off switch, cutting the TV screen to black before he can say, 'It's back to the studio, Jeremy.'

I'm huddled on the sofa, my feeble arms wrapped tight around my legs, my chin collapsed on my knees. I can't feel my feet. It's cold. Why didn't I put the heating on?

Or maybe that's just my skin.

My eyes slither around the room, stacked with appliances and furniture, my badges of wealth. My cocoon of  _stuff._  Needless, endless stuff.

It shields me from creeping memories, flashes of mines and elevators and wendigos.

My cell phone beeps beside me, startling me out of my trance. I glance to the side, at the screen. I let out an exasperated sigh.

_Greg_

_G: **Where are you?**_

_J: **Not there**_

_G: **Get your ass there now!**_

I roll my eyes, pressing the off button and killing the phone screen to black.

The room feels empty, no sound of the television filling the space or Greg's insistent texting. I swallow, burying my nose in between my knees and closing my eyes. Here; I should be safe here, should be free of my nightmares. But they still haunt me - they squeeze in through the cracks in the brick walls and slither underneath the door.

My eyes are jolted open. The room buzzes with the door bell ringing.

I let out a long sigh. Greg; he doesn't give up. He had probably been waiting outside my apartment building just so he could haunt outside my door.

With heavy limbs, I drag myself off the sofa and, with bare feet, shuffle along the hardwood floor.

I don't even care that I looks mess right now - my hair tangled, my face smudged with make up. Greg has seen me worse. Not that he cares.

The hallway feels endless as I trudge down it, towards the front door of my apartment. My mind cultivates retorts that I can use to get Greg off my back without him firing me. I even consider offering him a blonde wig to go and impersonate me at the court if he's so insistent on feeding the press.

I reach the door, huffing away a strand of hair that has fallen over my nose, before grabbing the handle and yanking it open.

"What the hell do you want, Greg-"

My words cut off. Standing in the doorway is a man I've never seen before, his stature tall and lanky, his skin a smooth caramel. I narrow my eyes at him, my mouth running dry.

"Jessica Mallinson?" He asks, glancing down at the notebook in his hand, tapping it with the end of his crude, Biro pen.

"Yes?" I ask cautiously, lifting my head to force confidence into my bones despite my disheveled appearance.

The man tries a polite smile, lifting his eyes to meet mine, shifting his shoulders up to his full height, his black Mackintosh opened to reveal his loose, pale grey shirt. I can't help but notice he failed to tuck it into his jeans.

"Hi," he greets me. "I'm Tag Hunt. I work as an independent journalist-"

I scoff, shoving the door in his face. He jams his foot in the doorway, propping the door open, peering around it to me, his eyes strong and serious. "I've come to talk to you about the wendigos."

 


	8. Chris

I squeeze her hand, my palm clammy with nerves. "We got this," I assure her though my own skin is riddled with anxiousness. She can see it in my eyes - like she always does. We can always tell when the other is on the brink.

"We just need to go in there and..." I breathe. "Tell the truth."

We are the witnesses of Emily's death. They need us to verify Mike's words. Mike needs us to defend him.

"They'll believe us," Ashley insists, though I can see her eyes shivering with worry, anxiety. "They have to!"

She's tried her best to comb her hair back into a high ponytail, her body clad in the neatest clothes she wears to work at the school. I've tried to match her efforts with dark jeans, a button up shirt with an inconspicuous pattern that I hope the court won't notice, and a dark grey, suit jacket - that I borrowed from a colleague at work - that is too big on my shoulders; the trousers didn't fit.

It's all we can afford. But we try.

Wordlessly, I manoeuvre our hands so that I can entwine my fingers with hers. I hope that I get called first. I hope that they don't hound into her with their brutal questioning. I hope that they believe us.

Despite what Sam says.

* * *

Sam was called first.

We wait with unsteady knees and sweaty palms, our breathing erratic as our ears are trained to listen for the distinct sound of the door opening, someone coming to call us for our questioning.

"Ash," I whisper quietly, the huge hallway of the courthouse far too big and imposing with its tall ceilings and ornate panels, to speak openly. My voice echoes anyway.

I swivel on my seat to face her. She's buried her face in her palms, breathing regularly like we'd been consulted to at the psychiatrist's. I reach forward and capture one of her hands, peeling it away from her face, her visible eye rolling to look at me. "Whatever happens in there," I clasp her hand in both of mine. "I- I love you."

She narrows her eyes, a weak, playful scoff escaping her lips. "It's not like we're going to die in there," she rolls her visible eye but I can still see the underlying nervousness bubbling under her skin. Her imagination is too vivid to force out theories and predictions of death and monsters and-

"Just-" I start.

The heavy door creaks open and I straighten in my seat immediately, keeping Ashley's hand in one of mine. She drops her other from her face, her eyes trained on the direction of the door, just beyond the corner of the hallway.

Sam appears around the corner, a solemn expression fixed on her face.

I stand up immediately, Ashley following suit, panic stricken across her features.

"What's happening?" I ask suddenly, taking a step towards our friend who has just emerged out of the courtroom.

"He's pleading self-defence," she explains when she reaches us.

"Are they taking him seriously?" I ask just as Ashley steps forward, demanding, "What's he saying? Did he say anything about me?"

I glance at her in bewilderment, shocked at her sudden outburst.

But before any of us can answer, the door heaves again, steady footsteps heading in our direction. "Christopher Sutherton?" The man asks, clasping his suit clad arms behind his back, his dark skin glistening underneath the bright light.

"That's me," I awkwardly lift my arm as if I'm back in high school. His cool, hard gaze does feel particularly oppressive.

"You have fifteen minutes," he informs, before turning on his heel, his shiny black shoes squeaking against the marble floor.

Yet all I feel I have time for is pressing a kiss to Ashley's forehead, sharing a good luck glance with Sam and following my escort into the courtroom, awaiting my time to be called.

* * *

Sam finds her seat next to me as my throat tightens, watching the witness box where Ashley sits. I barely have time to cast a 'thanks' glance to Sam for staying with Ashley before she was called, when the defence steps down from questioning my girlfriend.

Mike sits in the defendant space where his lawyer returns to his seat. He shares an assuring gaze with Mike who seems to be finding it hard to breathe despite his calm expression.

Matt, on the other side of the courtroom, is the opposite. I saw him when I took my place on the stand, his eyes hard and dark – an expression in them I'd never seen before. He's different than when he was up on that mountain with us. There is no happiness left in his eyes, his dark skin marred with scars and an  _E_ shaped tattoo twisting up his neck.

The lawyers were surprisingly feeble with me, the defence only asking me about the 'apparent' wendigos, and the prosecution confirming that I was a witness to Mike shooting Emily. The prosecution didn't even spend much time trying to disprove the contention of the wendigos – evidently, Sam was right. They saw no point in trying to address that issue, evidently finding it unbelievable already.

"Apparently," Sam leans in to whisper in my ear. "The defence presented Emily's bite mark as evidence."

I glance towards the girl beside me, swallowing hard, hope building in my stomach. Maybe that will be enough to prove to the jury that it wasn't some normal creature who attacked her.

"They-" Sam starts but the voice of the prosecution cuts her off.

My eyes fly to Ashley who looks like she's in a puddle of tears. Her fingers are gripping the barrier in front of where she sits, her nails digging into the wood as her hands shake.

I desperately want to run up there and hug her, wrap her in my arms and shield her from their verbal bullets.

"So this diary," the prosecution paces in front of her stall, a smug look on his face, his eyes hard with determination. "You say that it had information on the, so called,  _wendigos_  in it."

"Yes," Ashley insists, her voice breaking, and she looks like she's about to jump out of her seat.

"Hmmm," the prosecution hums, tapping his chin with his index finger. "Was there anything in this diary that informed you about the bites from these...  _creatures_."

Ashley's face drains with mine.

"Uh-uh," Ashley is stuttering and my throat is running dry, my legs itching to stand up, to protest.

The prosecution leaps forward, slamming his hands on the railing she's holding, her hands flying back in shock. "I can't hear you," he cocks his head, leaning his ear in her direction.

I can see Ashley swallow and my jaw is tight, my fists clenched beside me, knuckles whitening. Sam rests her hand on my shoulder, her action pushing me back down in my seat.

"Yes," Ashley says finally, lifting her chin to ensue confidence, but I can see the tear dribbling down her cheek, my body filling with rage and hurt and desperation.

"And what did it say in this diary?" The prosecution smirks. "About this  _bite_  the victim had?"

"That-" She starts, her eyes darting away and I can tell she wants to escape. Mike is shuffling uncomfortably in his seat, his lawyer giving him an assuring glance. Then Ashley's eyes meet me and I reach out to her with mine. I have no words but I need her to know that I'm here for her. And she knows that; I see the reminder in her eyes, her gaze settling. She doesn't adjust her gaze from me, taking my eyes as the only confidence she has to say this. "That the bite wasn't infectious."

The prosecution slaps the barrier with his palm victoriously, stepping back and turning to the judge, "Thank you, Your Honour," before returning to his seat.

Ashley looks relieved to be out of the prosecutions shadow despite how jittery she is. She avoids Mike's eyes as she is shakily guided out of the stall and out of the courtroom.

"Ten minutes recess," the judge announces just as she bangs her gavel against her wooden desk. As soon as the words are said, I snap to my feet and hurry out of the room to find Ashley.

 


	9. Sam

It feels like a long ten minutes. I trace my steps back to the waiting area in the lobby, Chris and Ashley already there. She's huddled over herself with Chris wrapping his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to his chest. "I ruined everything," she hiccups, her voice poisoned with anger at herself.

"No," Chris murmurs against her hair. "No, you did what you had to."

"But," she sniffles, swiping her wrist under her nose. "Now Mike is going to go to prison and it's all my fault!"

"If Mike's going to go to prison," I step forward, their heads turning at the sound of my voice. "It'll be his own fault." I can hear my own words breaking but I act like I never heard it.

There is not a day that goes by that I don't wish I could have convinced Mike not to shoot. I dream that I manage to say the exact words to get him to put that gun down, that the bullet doesn't race through Emily's skull. But I wake up and remember the world is absent of Emily and Mike is going to be prosecuted for her murder.

"Did you get to see him?" Chris asks, turning his attention to me.

I solemnly shake my head. "They say he's only letting his lawyer see him now," I explain, riffling in my pocket and pulling out my cell phone.

I click the power button on, relieved to see the screen come to life after having been put to sleep for the duration of the trial. Maybe they'll let me at least text him - providing his cell phone hasn't been confiscated. I want to let Mike know his wolf is safe, that he's being looked after by a very reluctant, elderly neighbour half the size of him.

My cell phone pings to life before I can even open a new text. A new blog comment notification. With raised eyebrows, I click on the notice only to be directed to the comment section of my most recent blog post.

**Hunt.R**

_Check this out._

The comment is preceded by a blue hyperlink to a website. Cautiously curious, I click on the link which flies me off in the direction of the website.

The website takes a few moments to load, a black background emerging slowly.

My throat closes up.

"What the hell?!" My voice breaks as I stare at the screen of my cell phone.

"What?" Chris asks suddenly, standing to his feet and hovering behind me to look over my shoulder. Ashley, uncomfortable on her own, quickly follows, her hand hooking into Chris' elbow.

There, on the screen, is a website riddled with pictures of us. Me, outside the New York Times tower, Chris heading into the prison, Jessica leaving it. Wolf accompanying me out of Chris and Ashley's apartment building. A few distinct pictures of Matt. More photos of us from earlier today.

DING! One new post.

It's a picture of us, huddled together over my cell phone in the lobby of the court house.

"Holy crap," my heart pounds as I whisper underneath my breath. I can hear Chris swear behind me, my fingers shaking, almost dropping the phone.

Somebody's watching us.

 


	10. Jessica

"I don't have time for this," I groan, giving up on trying to shove him out of the door. In exasperation, I swivel on my heel away from the door. Fine, I'll give the press what they want and then they can leave with one more broken piece of me.

"You don't understand," Tag invites himself in, closing the door behind him. My throat closes, eyes flickering to the door as my mind begins to panic. Tag notices, gives me an apologetic look and opens the door a crack – a promise that he won't do anything, that he's giving me a route of escape

"No," I snap at him, cutting off his words. " _You_  don't understand. I don't ever want to talk about that again! Got it?!"

But Tag is unfazed, simply standing there with his stupid notebook and a pacified expression on his face. Wordlessly, he reaches for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up to reveal his toned stomach ripped by three, thick lacerations.

"I met them too, Jessica," he says quietly, his eyes reaching up to meet mine. But mine are too transfixed by the riddled, rough scars. So that's why he hadn't tucked in his shirt – he'd been completely prepared to show me this.

"You..." I start but my words are lost in my throat.

"They killed my father," he says slowly, his eyes open and sincere, his pain only hidden underneath the thin layers of his skin. "On the same night they almost killed you."

My mouth is dry. My eyes trail up to his face, eyebrows knitted together as I see him no longer as a measly journalist but as someone who understands. I can't find any words - that's something that doesn't happen very often.

"Can we sit?" Tag asks, adjusting his shirt back over his torso.

* * *

"What do you remember about them, Jessica?" Tag asks, sitting neatly on the sofa next to where I am shoved to the side, as far away from him as I possibly can be.

I fiddle with my nails, my pale pink nail polish chipping. It feels like I'm in a psychiatrist session, oppressed by his beady gaze. I never did like those meetings with the psychiatrist back in rehab.

"I don't want to talk about this," I shake my head again, feeling like it's the hundredth time I've said those words in the last twenty minutes.

"Okay," he sighs, though, with some ridiculous magic, he sounds polite doing it. "How about what you remember from the mines-"

"You know what?" I shoot up to my feet, snapping my hard gaze to him, my arm pointing in the direction of the door. "You're leaving!"

"Hey," he looks like a wounded deer in the middle of the road, shocked at the sight of headlights. "I'm just trying-"

"Yeah, yeah, you're just trying to help," I roll my eyes, scoffing. "They all are."

"No," he shakes his head, standing up calmly and brushing off his jeans. "I'm here because," he breathes, his eyes drifting from mine to somewhere less incriminating. "I need  _your_  help."

 


	11. Chris

I adjust back into my seat in the courtroom, Ashley now free to sit beside me and Sam on her other side. The images on that website are engrained in my mind, like the flashes of light tattooed underneath eyelids when eyes are closed. Photos stretching back two years, to when we left the police station at the bottom of the mountain, pictures stacked upon pictures of every moment in my life, and the lives of everyone else. The intimate moments in Matt's life were destroyed by the flash of a camera - moments with him taking a girl to a hotel on a regular bases. It was never the same girl.

I felt guilty just looking at them but my eyes were glued to the screen as Sam swore, glancing around the corridor, desperately looking for the culprit who had just snapped our photograph. It hadn't taken her long to snatch our arms and drag us into a more secluded area, panic rising on her face. It turned out that the area she had in mind was a nearby storage cupboard.

"They even have pictures of Mike here," I had swallowed, racing down the webpage on the phone I'd taken from Sam.

"What if they're gonna kill us?" Ashley's panicked voice had shivered, her gaze not resting on anything until it reached my face.

"They're not gonna kill us," I'd replied, eyes locked on the cell phone screen. Though my voice evidently hadn't been so certain of my words.

"Do you think you'd be able to track the website?" Sam had asked, stepping up to me.

I had shaken my head, unsure. "I can try-"

My words had been cut off by the five minute warning that the court was about to resume.

Mike is currently being interrogated by the prosecution attorney - a broken determined look on his face - but my mind is captured by that web page. The photos are haunting my head, even more so than the wendigos.

The prosecution has already crashed down our one hope of evidence by analysing Emily's bite mark and determining that, although the shape was unusual, the DNA of whatever gave it to her was human.

I had heard Sam scoff at that, not believing that anyone could sanely suggest that one of us had bit her just to cover up the murder.

The defence had brought in a witness statement from a Native American to confirm that wendigos transform from humans.

The jury hadn't taken very well to that, evidently more in favour of the insane than the truth.

I was exactly like one of them before the mountain.

"Did you or did you not," the prosecution eyes Mike as he slowly slurs out the question, "Pull the trigger?"

"Yes," Mike replies as steadily as he can but I can see the guilt hovering behind his eyes. He regrets it - of course he does. He regrets ever shooting Emily; and he regrets that he even feels that way.

"And yet!" The prosecution lifts his arms in fake exasperation. "Ashley has already told us there was information in this diary that the bite - a bite with human DNA," he turns to explain smugly to the jury, before turning back to Mike, "Wasn't infectious."

"Yes, but we found that afterwards," Mike says, trying to steady his voice, his frustration building. I can see his fists clench.

"But we already know," the lawyer groans. "That the diary was just sitting right in front of you the whole time! Do you really expect me to believe that you just  _ignored_  it?!"

"Well, you're gonna have to!" Mike snapped, jerking forward in his seat and gripping the railing in anger. "There was no time! I was being pressured!"

"Pressured?" The prosecution asks, raising his eyebrows slowly, evidently surprised himself. "By who?"

He doesn't know.

But I do. Instinctively, I reach out for Ashley's hand, gripping it for my own comfort more than hers. My breathing is unsteady as I watch Mike with narrowed, panicked eyes. Sam's gaze is torn towards me, worry on her features. She knows too.

Mike shuffles uncomfortably in his seat. His eyes flicker to his lawyer who calmly nods, completely prepared for this.

This was planned. This was their secret weapon, their fall back.

My throat closes up. I can't breathe.

Ashley whimpers beside me.

"Who?!" The prosecution snaps forward, demanding the information from Mike.

Mike settles his eyes back to him, purposefully avoiding mine.

Josh knew. Josh knew this was going to happen and he was warning me.

Mike swallows before he opens his mouth and says, "Ashley."

_Bang bang Ashley._

 


	12. Interlude 2 - Mike

"What the hell?!" Chris growls, charging into the room - somehow managing to force his way through the guards - and marching up to Mike.

"Lay off," Mike warns Chris under his breath, his eyes dark. He knew this would happen the minute he'd had said Ashley's name on that stand - he'd purposely avoided Chris' gaze or it would have wavered his decision.

Now Mike stands tall, not missing Chris' cold stare for a second. He'd already had practice with Matt at the prison earlier, the man demanding that Mike take the charges, that he get what he deserves. It was easy now to see the similarities - they were both just trying to protect women they loved.

"Lay off?!" Chris scoffs incredulously. "Just because  _you_  can't get out of what you've done," Chris grits his teeth, "You drag us all down  _with_  you?!"

It was Mike's only option. His lawyer had formulated the plan, promising that if the self-defence plea failed, spreading out the blame would give Mike a lesser charge. He'd had to do it; and hopefully neither Chris nor Ashley would hate him too much for it.

Ashley is dangerous with a grudge.

The guard in the room steps forward to apprehend Chris but Mike swiftly raises his hand to stop him. This kid needs to get his anger out.

"It's not like you didn't stop me," Mike mutters low under his breath, just enough that only Chris can hear.

Chris stares at him, his eyes widening as if he can't even believe what he's hearing. He wants to punch Mike, hr can see it in Chris' eyes, in the way his forehead tenses. But one glance to his side reminds him of the guard's presence and leaves him simmering instead.

"We were helping you," Chris' jaw clenches, his voice low, energy draining. "We were trying to get you off."

Mike swallows, refraining himself from retorting about the so-called helpfulness of Ashley's damn diary confession. He wants to say it, his jaw tight; but if Chris wasn't going to punch him already, he would have gotten one at that.

Chris slumps his shoulders, shaking his head. It's as if everything he ever trusted has crumbled in a matter of minutes.

Mike feels the tinges of guilt pricking the back of his chest. They used to be a team, surviving that mountain together - now they're battling against each other for their own personal interests.

"Enjoy prison," he scoffs half-heartedly before turning his back to Mike and pushing himself out of the room.

Mike heaves his shoulders, letting out a breath, before muttering, "I already am."

 


	13. Sam

The trial is adjourned for the day, to resume tomorrow. Chris has disappeared and a frantic Ashley is being interrogated by the police as an accomplice to Emily's death. I'm surprised they didn't just arrest all of us on suspicion of the same thing. It would have made it a whole lot easier; bulldoze all the wendigo-believing nut-cases in one full swing.

Mike was wrong to say what he did, but I understand why he did it. He  _was_  under pressure, both by Ashley at the time he shot that dreadful gun, and by the prosecution only minutes ago.

But Chris' reaction was expected - he was desperate to protect Ashley (and himself) after all they had been through. After all, Josh had done more damage to Chris and Ashley more than the wendigos ever had; it was no surprise that trust was hard to come by these days. But it had been Chris who had said if they told the truth, everything would be alright.

So much for that.

"Can't you trace the website?" I plead with a nearby policeman in the lobby of the court house, insisting he look at the screen of my phone.

"You'll have to take that to the local police sta-"

"You  _are_  the local police," I insist, stepping towards the man who calmly holds his hands up.

"Please refrain from-"

"Hey," I say shortly, disbelieving. "I'm not going to shoot you like-"

"Sam!" Chris' voice cuts off my words and I turn to face him, the policeman looking relieved now that he thinks I can't see his expression. Chris is jogging towards me, cautiously glancing to nearby guards in case they tell him off for running in the corridor, just like in school. "Where's Ash?"

I sigh, glancing down, my hand holding the phone collapsing to my side. "She's being questioned."

Chris swears under his breath before I cut the distance between us and shove my phone into his hand. "Figure out who's doing this to us," I plead.

He nods solemnly, reluctant, doubting that he can actually do it. But instead of voicing his fears, he simply says, "Yeah," glancing down and fiddling with the touch-keys on the phone.

I glance around nervously as if I'd be able to see our stalker lurking in the shadows, watching us through a camera lens. Any shift of a figure around a corner, any abnormal footsteps, anything that alerts me to their presence. It feels like my hearing has been amplified by those mines, listening out for the telltale screeches of the wendigos.

"Sam," Chris says slowly. I turn to look at him, seeing his eyes glued to the screen of my phone.

"Yeah?" I ask, feeling nerves and fear tighten in my stomach like an ever tangled knot upon knot. I step forward, peering over his elbow at the phone screen.

"There's a new photo," he breathes, leaning the phone in my direction so I can see clearer. There, on the screen, is a frazzled Jessica walking out of her apartment complex with a man.

"Who's that?" I ask, leaning in closer to the screen to see him clearer. All I can see of him is dark hair, dark skin and a black coat. He might as well be a shadow.

"I don't know, a new boyfriend?" Chris says absentmindedly. "That's not the point. Look at the photo before it." He scrolls down to show a picture of me talking to the policeman from about five minutes ago, posted at exactly the same time as the other one of Jess. How could they take pictures from two different places at once unless... "There's more than one of them."

"What?" I hiss, my throat closing as I take the cell phone from Chris' hands with my own, shaking fingers. "Do you think they're working together?"

Chris shakes his head, a lifeless, breathy laugh low in his chest. "Well, they're using the same website. Figures."

I feel anger rumble in my throat, before I swivel on my heels and shout out, "Hey! Come out where we can see you! Coward!" The policeman from earlier looks awkward as he tries to melt into the wall.

"Hey," Chris tugs at my elbow, cautious and stern. "You might anger him."

I scoff, but taking his advice, I turn back towards him and mutter, "I wouldn't be surprised if it was a woman."

 


	14. Jessica

I don't know what stupidity convinced me to do this. I didn't even have the luxury of regaining some composure and touching up my smudged make up.

When I'd been hovering in front of the hall mirror and dabbed at my dry, pink lips, Tag had merely tugged at my elbow and made his opinion entirely known in saying, "This is more important."

As he'd practically dragged me out of my apartment complex, hardly giving me enough time to lock the door on my flat, I was very tempted to argue that not much is ever more important than make up.

It's a shield, a mask, something to construct myself with. I cling onto it because it feels like it's the one last piece of me left - and it's not much of me at all. It feels kind of empty in the shell of my body. I'm only ever surrounded by people who use me as a money making device. They can't see past the mask I've made for myself to the crumbling remains of the Jessica I used to be. It's... lonely.

I scold myself for even admitting that as Tag ushers me out of the double doors of my apartment building to the eerily quiet street in front. It's hard to admit that I barely spend much time on this street at all, only ever stepping on the sidewalk for a brief period between walking from my apartment building and into a generic, black car to take me to the next conference.

Tag mutters about not having much time left as he keeps checking his phone, swearing under his breath at something he saw on the screen. Swiftly, he sweeps his head up, looking around as if he's searching for something or someone. Never once does he stop moving.

But I do. "Excuse me," I pipe up confidently, standing stock still in the middle of the sidewalk, tugging at my hair enough that it crudely resembled the results of a hair iron. "How do I know you're not going to drag me to some alleyway and murder me?"

"If I had wanted to murder you," he mutters, unfazed, as if he had expected and rehearsed all possible answers to multiple possible questions. Never once did he lift his eyes from his cell phone screen, swiftly coaxing me by my elbow to start moving again. "I would have done it back in your apartment."

I shiver at the thought, wrapping my arms around my parka jacketed self. I don't want to even imagine my apartment splattered with my own blood, ripped to shreds and left tumbled in a pile on hollow floor, blood creeping into the cracks and grains in the wood. But it's not hard visualise anymore; not after the numerous nightmares that play out that exact storyline - though the killer isn't ever Tag or any other human.

Tag ushers me quickly into a nearby cab like I'm a rag doll, climbs in after me and slams the door behind.

And I keep on muttering about how much of an idiot I am.

"Listen," Tag explains slowly, the back of the cab quiet except for the rumbling of the engine and muffled horns blaring outside the window. "I know you don't trust me-"

"What gave you that idea?" I scoff, not even trying to hide my sarcasm as I lean my chin against the palm of my hand and train my eyes on the world beyond the window. I am, however, trying to hide my erratic heartbeat and the incessant fidgeting of my fingers.

Tag sighs, acting like he didn't hear any of what I just said. "You're the only one who can do this. He won't speak with anyone else-"

"Who?!" My eyes snap to Tag in alarm, my hand inconspicuously slipping down to the handle of the door, ready to grip it and jump out of the vehicle. But Tag notices and tries to calm me down with a gentle smile. I only shake my head in disbelief, averting my gaze in case he sees the fear in them.

"Don't worry," he says rhythmically. "You know him."

I dare to close my eyes, breathing slowly in throw my nose and out through my mouth like I was tutored in rehab. My soft, broken voice whispers, "That's what I'm most afraid of."

* * *

"Matt?!" The word drops from my mouth before I can even shove it back in.

He stands in his grungy apartment doorway, his eyes worn with tears and skin dry like ripped paper.

"Jess?" He asks tentatively, his voice hoarse. He looks like he's just come back from court, his suit jacket pulled off his shoulders and his white shirt unbuttoned to his stomach. "What are you doing here?"

I want to ask that question myself but when I glance angrily to my side to retort Tag, he's no where to be seen.

Tag's voice echoes in my mind, repeating the words he had said just before we reached this apartment number; "He's lonely too."

"I- er," quickly, I mentally switch into the motivational speaker version of me and flicker on a bright smile like I'm a television screen. "Can I come in?"

By some miracle, he lets me.

 


	15. Chris

I keep hoping that I'll hear her voice with every minute that passes by. Every so often, I hold my breath just in case the sound of it is louder than her fragile words. My left knee bounces nervously up and down, the heel of my barely-smart shoe scuffing against the leg of the wooden bench I sit on.

"Can you not do that?" Sam's cautiously impatient voice whispers beside me.

"Sorry," I reply, forcing my leg to stay still. Hunched over myself, I pull my glasses down my nose and rub my thumb and forefinger into the corners of my eyes. "You should go. Seriously, you don't need to stay-"

"I'm not leaving," Sam says matter-of-factly, leaning back so her spine is pressed against the back of the bench. She crosses her arms, her gaze scanning the hallway of the courthouse, eyes narrowing as if she were sending a clear message to a hidden watcher. "I'm not letting you be alone with this  _freak_  following us."

A chuckle rumbles low in my chest, but it is lifeless, drained of energy. "Last time I checked, cameras can't shoot bullets. I think I'm good."

Sam hums poignantly beside me. "You'd be surprised." She thumbs her cellphone, flicking down the website, constantly refreshing it. I don't think there's been a new photograph for half an hour - maybe our mysterious paparazzi got the hint when Sam almost raged off at them.

"Don't look at that," I warn her, my arms slung over my knees. "It's a one way trip to paranoia-"

"Chris?"

Her voice snaps my head up and I'm on my feet, running towards her, not even caring if ignoring the 'Caution: Wet Floor' sign will be my downfall. I skid to a stop, pulling Ashley into my arms, afraid to look at her face in case they've done something to her, in case the fear and hurt is scarred as wrinkles on her pale skin.

"Are you okay?" I breathe out, Ashley mumbling an agreement into my chest, her head moving in a nod.

"Yeah," she promises as she lifts her head and I pull away just enough so that I can cup her face with my hands. "They're... not going to press charges."

My throat lets out a ragged sigh of relief, pulling her back in for another hug - and another, and another. Apparently, time is too short to refrain from hugging.

I'd never tell her but I had been dreading to hear the news that she was going to be prosecuted shortly after Mike - and not just because it was going to drive me insane to see her crumble away like ashes on that witness stand, but because I knew we'd never be able to afford a lawyer. If Ashley had been taken to court, it would have instantly doomed her to a life in prison.

And I'd never get to ask her...

My right hand slips down from her shoulders to her back, subconsciously reaching for her left hand. And ever so slightly rubbing the base of her ring finger before intertwining my fingers with hers.

I barely hear a faint sound of laughter vibrating against my chest, the first sound of even brief happiness I've heard from Ashley - from either of us - in weeks, before I lift her head from my chest and press a longing, well-deserved kiss on her lips.

"Let's go home," I breathe, leaning my forehead against hers. Her smile is small but her eyes are big as they glisten with the tiniest prick of hope.

"Yeah..."

* * *

The sun is rejoicing with us as the the humid, summer breeze, churning with the smell of exhaust fumes, greets us outside the courthouse. It's bittersweet but at least it's something.

I hold onto Ash's hand every step of the way, refusing to let go just in case the stalker - or Mike - latches onto her with their greasy, tentacles. My chest feels hollow, my eyes squinting at the bright sun hovering above the pikes and spirals of the towering buildings surrounding us. It's as if I've lost something, or lost sight of something I had been grabbing and stretching for before. Or maybe I don't want to reach it anymore.

This morning, I had been yearning to defend Mike, determined to get his charges dropped so he could walk free. We were one body; all seven of us, the survivors of that horrific night, and we were supposed to work together. But now Matt, the hand, is trying to cut himself off from everyone else, chopping Mike - the arm - off in the process. And Jess, the ear, refuses to listen anymore. She feels so far away.

And the guts are spilling out with no Emily to hold them in place.

Ashley is holding on with the last shreds of her left. But she's still there, the brain, still churning and working, even if she seems diluted.

And Josh. He's my eyes. He sees things I can't. My chest contracts at the thought of him - surely he'd know exactly what was going on with this stalker. He's probably had experience in the field.

At least Sam's still here. At least the heart is still beating for everyone else.

Then there's me. I don't know what I am, not anymore. Before, I was the ribcage, protective and assured. Now... maybe my bones are broken.

When I'd asked Ashley before what she thought I was, she'd giggled with that cheeky look on her face and plainly said, "The funny bone."

"Hey!" I'd retorted, a grin forming on my face. "That's not a good thing! The funny bone doesn't make you laugh, it just makes you swear in pain when you hit it- Hey! Was that an insult?!"

And I'd proceeded to chase her around the room like we were little kids, the walls vibrating from the laughter, before I tackled her to the ground.

"Say that again," I'd warned with my eyebrows raised, a smirk on my lips, my nose inches from hers. She had never looked so beautiful until that moment; her red hair in a tangled mess, her eyes glistening with tears of laughter, a truly joyful smile tugging at her lips.

She'd bit her lip in a grin right then, no fear alive in her eyes, and daringly said, "Funny. Bone."

And I'd attacked her with tickling and kisses.

I wish we could go back to those times, the lull between recovery and anxiety. We were happy then, even if it was just pretend.

"Samantha," a voice pulls my head up, my thoughts snapping back into reality.

There, across the road, is an elderly woman being dragged across a zebra crossing by a seemingly aggravated Wolfie. Although the dog leash looks like it's in worse shape than the woman, canine teeth marks gnawed into the leather, an evident sign that the wolf was not in favour of being leased up.

"Hey, bro," I crouch down as the couple nears, attempting my least-awkward clap of my knees. The least I owed him was a friendly hello.

I'm quickly greeted by a low growl and I snap my hands up in surrender, slowly stretching to my feet. "Ooookaaaayyy," I drag the word out, glancing sheepishly at Ashley who seems quite amused. Well, I certainly know where this animal's loyalties lie. You can take the wolf away from the owner but you can't take the owner away from the wolf.

"Sorry, Samantha," the elderly woman apologises, huffing as if she's just finished a marathon, and finally manages to get Wolfie to sit - though I suspect it's because he's in front of Sam now. Sam responds by dropping to her feet and giving Wolfie a welcome scratch behind the ears. "He kept wining at the door and trying to scratch his way out. If I kept him inside, all my wooden furniture would be left with his claw marks!"

"Could use it as branding," I joke underneath my breath. However, for being over seventy years old, she's got great hearing, her eyes snapping warningly at me. "Oops," I shine her a sheepish smile, feeling Ashley squeeze my hand beside me. I'll probably get told off by her when we get home.

"Thanks, Mrs Henderson," Sam chimes as she takes the leash from the woman's wrinkled hand. In relief, the elderly woman turns on her heel and seemingly skips out of sight, probably dislocating a hip in the process.

"Alright, buddy," Sam pats Wolfie's thick coat before promising, "I'll take the leash off you once we get home. You've got to grin and bear it till then."

And he does.

 


	16. Sam

I curse under my breath, instantly jamming the backspace key, deleting the words I had just typed on my desktop computer. I'm not ever going to get this right; no matter how many times I start and restart, I can't find the right words. It all feels so personal, like a hand has smashed through the screen, ripped through my chest to yank out my heart, and smeared it all over the Word Document page.

My blog was strictly for facts, for proving the existence of wendigos and other abandoned, thrown away myths. And in turn, it had attracted the audience of likeminded people, those who are unhealthily intrigued by the dangerous, the unpopular beliefs. The kind of people that would play Age of Mythology over Age of Empires.

_How did the case go?_

The comments on my last blog post are endless, insisting on an answer on that exact question.

My fans are obsessed. They are deluded, wannabe victims, wishing they could have had the experience I had. With those creatures. If only they knew...

Of course I couldn't hide who I was for long. My name  _had_  been plastered across news reports all around the country and people naturally suspected. I had eventually dropped my pen name and admitted my true identity. And that was all. The news reports did the rest.

But I feel like I can't hide all these things, these secrets, inside the cage of my body anymore. They are gripping my ribcage like the bars of a prison, shaking and rattling them, battling to get free.

I refocus my eyes back onto the computer keyboard, my hands hovering over it, readjusting myself back into my black, swivel chair. With a determined breath, I let my fingers fall onto the keys.

_I've never felt truly alone. And now the truth of that has come true. Today I discovered that I have a photographic obsessed stalker. That changes a lot of things..._

A distant crash shudders the room. My fingers freeze.

The room suddenly feels cold, an imaginary breeze creeping up the back of my neck.

"Hello?" I call out, my chair squeaking as it swivels. "Wolfie! Is that you-"

My words are cut off as I see Wolfie's lump of a body collapsed on the rug beside my feet, a far off thump perking his ears up, yanking him out of his sleep. My heart shudders. No matter how far off the noises sound, they feel so uncomfortably close.

I was sure we had lost whoever was watching us. The three of us had constructed a plan to confuse whoever was following - if they had still been with us, inside that courthouse. It had been Ashley's idea at first, and then Chris had helped me map out overly weaving pathways back to our apartments, making our destinations unpredictable and impossible to follow.

Almost impossible, apparently.

These photographers had only ever been watching us from afar. What had led one of them to break into my apartment? Maybe it was because I now knew what they were up to.

And I was an easy target, given that my apartment was on the ground floor. Damn, I should have pulled out all the stops and bought that third floor flat when I had the chance.

Chris had insisted on not letting me go back to my apartment on my own, his protective genes flaring up again. But I had assured him I would be fine and it would be in our best interests to confuse the stalker, forcing them into a quick decision to make; who to follow? At the time, I'd hoped they'd follow me - Ashley wasn't in a good enough state to have her anxiety rattling inside her skull over it.

Now, I wish they hadn't.

I press my index finger to my lips in a 'be quiet' action to Wolfie, before pulling myself slowly out of my chair, trying to stop it squeaking as much as possible. Wolfie obeys, heaving himself to his feet, his ears as sharp as arrowheads as his fur on his back pricks up like static. I can hear the faintest growl rumbling at the back of his throat.

Slowly, carefully so I don't creak the floorboards, I reach for a nearby, steel lamp - an art piece that never really did go well with my boho-esque decor of rustic red rugs and Indian patterned furnishings - and yank it from its plug in the wall, plunging the small, living room into darkness. The only light ghostly sheens across the room from my computer screen.

With shivering breaths - something I swear I can see in the dim, dusky darkness - and a lump resident in my tight throat, I inch forward towards the door to the hallway. Wolfie clings to my heels, his protective nature far more impressive than Chris'.

I'm getting closer to the door. The sound is growing louder as I grip the cold, sticky metal of my lamp with both fists. It sounds distorted, like rough, non-sequential footsteps.

"Okay," I breathe, my voice barely a whisper, but I'm sure I can hear it echo around the room. I nod towards Wolfie, bracing him and myself, before letting one hand peel away from the lamp and reach for the door handle.

Under my breath, I count to three. Grip the handle. Twist it. Pull.

As the door swings open, I latch both hands onto my lamp, ready to swing it, and Wolfie lunges forward.

And a figure clad in an orange jumpsuit stumbles out of my nearby bathroom.

"Josh?!"

* * *

"What the  _hell_  are you doing here?!" I demand, snapping forward and almost knocking Josh over.

He looks frazzled by Wolfie's presence, the animal growling gruffly at his feet. Swiftly, I call him to heel and he calms down, though Josh isn't so quick to follow.

"I, um... got out!" He answers plainly before spreading his arms out wide in triumph. "Surprise!"

I stare at him incredulously, my mouth agape. "You can't just  _break_  out of  _prison_ , Josh!" My voice cracks as I shout at him. He looks taken aback as if he'd honestly think I'd be glad to see him.

My eyes drift stiffly to my left to see my bathroom door open, revealing glass shattered all over the floor, glistening in the moonlight through the gaping, smashed hole of a window. My arms fly up in exasperation, my fingers tangling in my messy hair, panic rising up in me. I have a federal criminal in my apartment. I. Have a federal criminal. In my apartment. "Couldn't you have  _knocked_?!"

Josh shrugs one shoulder shortly, bewildered at my anger, before rapping his knuckles in mid air, making a knocking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. And he twists his words sweetly, "Can I come in?"

 


	17. Jessica

"This is... cosy," is my attempt at making pleasantries with someone I have refused to see for over a year. Unsurprisingly, my words are tinted with sarcasm and a slight dubious lilt.

His apartment is dusky and dark, cowering under a cloud of shadows. His furniture is carved from gloomy, rotting pieces of dark wood, his rustic, red sofa the definition of a thrift store disaster - the dated, Paisley pattern is ripped, exposing the yellowing foam underneath. And I'm pretty sure I can make out the cobweb shape of a coffee stain seeping into the fabric. The walls feel tight and close; if they were living creatures, they'd be breathing down my neck. The only light seems to be coming from a worn, free-standing lamp in the corner. The light it gives off reminds me of rotting oranges.

Matt slings a wine bottle from the top of a dusty, dark wood cabinet and dangles it in my direction. "Drink?" He asks plainly, not waiting for me to answer before he's already sloshing the liquid into two large, wine glasses, refusing to stop until the alcohol is lingering just below the rim of each glass. It spills over onto Matt's hand as he snatches up one of the glasses, sharply presenting it to me.

"Thanks," I mumble, unsure, the glass almost slipping between my fingers as I grip it. I can't even tell what colour the wine is in this dim light.

I take a sip. Mm. Red. Appropriate.

There's no doubt in my mind that Matt would still have poured those wine glasses for himself, even if I hadn't been here.

"Wanna sit?" He offers, though his words are tripping and skimming over themselves. I can already smell alcohol on his breath. I physically cringe at the idea of having to go anywhere near that sofa - but it looks like the most comfortable surface in the whole, claustrophobic-inducing space.

Stiffly, I shuffle my way around an awkwardly placed side table to the sofa - which is positioned to face an ashy, gaping fireplace that doesn't look like it's been used any time in this last century - and lowering myself onto it. Matt wastes no time in joining me; though his entry isn't so polite. He slings himself into the furniture and I'm surprised his wine doesn't slosh over all the surfaces in the room, including me, until I realise he's already drunk half of it.

"So," he lifts his glass in a mocking salute as he drapes his body unflatteringly across half the sofa, almost shoving me off the side. I'm surprised that his lanky body hasn't tumbled off the armrest yet. "What brings you here?" He pauses to hiss my name like a snake.

Matt is a drunk. The realisation hits me like the wrecking ball that should be smashing through this horrendous apartment. I never knew alcohol made him so aggressive. No. Maybe that was just the way he was now. How did I have the right to determine what was normal and what wasn't anymore?

Matt. He used to be so  _nice_. Too nice for his own good. I feel my chest, despite myself, mourn for the lost Matt trapped in the past, back in those mines, back when I was-

 _No._  I snap myself out of it.  _Not now, Jess. Not ever_ , I scold myself, feeling my fragile heart shuddering inside my ribcage.

Something to say. I need to spark up some kind of conversation, something to make this bearable.

I watch Matt gulp down the rest of his wine in one swing.

My mouth becomes dry as my lips try to form words. "How did the trial go-"

"Don't ask me about the case," Matt grits his teeth, his eyes flashing in emotional pain. I'm sure he's aware it's there by the way he avoids my gaze. "I've had enough of that... Please."

Thank heavens. I let out an audible sigh of relief. I don't think I could have survived a conversation like that.

My eyes skim to the coffee table where documents and newspaper clippings are sprawled across the rough wood. Curious - evidently privacy not being a part of my vocabulary - I lean forward to study them.

My throat chokes.

"These are all about Em..." I breathe.

Matt snaps his stare to me, swiftly lunging forward and sweeping up the documents into a file and shoving them away, out of sight.

"Don't..." He warns, but his hard eyes waver and in a split second, he's collapsed back onto the sofa, covering his face with large, unsteady hands.

"I can't take this," he growls, though his voice breaks as I hear the unmissable sounds of sobs muffled by his hands. "I'm going crazy here," he groans, one hand sliding up from his face to drag into his hair.

His skin is distorted by rough tears.

My fingers dig into the palms of my hands, mentally rehearsing my mantra. Don't get involved, Jess. This will only make you worse. This will break you again. This time you'll never get up.

But the sunken look on Matt's face makes me swear at those meaningless words, and I'm pulling closer to him.

"Hey," I try my best at a comforting voice. As much as I didn't enjoy my therapy sessions, the experience has geared me up for this. "Hey, Matt." I'm so tempted to slap him across the cheek, to get him to snap out of it and face me. But my fingers are tangled in the material of my long, baggy shirt. "Look at me!"

He does. His watery, shivering eyes look at mine. And my heart sinks.

"I see her everywhere, Jess," his voice breaks but his gaze doesn't. He's latching onto it - just so he can cling onto something. Something that's not alcohol.

"Who?" I ask cautiously. But I already feel like I know the answer.

"Em," he shatters. His whole body is clenched, the tattoo on the side of his neck wrinkling. "She's haunting me."

 


	18. Interlude 3 - Mike

Josh, the loon. What the hell had he done now?

The atmosphere in the prison had thickened by the time Mike had been escorted back. It was worse than the court room – worse than hearing the cracking of Ashley's fragile heart when he'd said her name on that stand. Worse than the anger and hurt bubbling behind Chris' eyes when he'd forced his way in to confront Mike. He could feel the cold stares of the guards watching his every inching move, as if he'd join his so-called friend out of the prison.

But it did have it's positives; Mike no longer had to deal with Josh's incessant babbling. If he had, Mike was sure he'd be having two murder trials on his hands.

No one had explicitly said it – of course not, Mike (as a prisoner), was no longer classed as a human being – but Mike had chiselled his hearing skills, listening through doors and round corners. There was talk of a prisoner from the solitary wing escaping... and it hadn't taken Mike long to guess who would have the guts to do something so ridiculously ludicrous.

But it wasn't so ludicrous if he'd managed to escape, now, was it?

Mike had studied his prison cell every day he had been in this place; every corner, every inch, every speck of dust on the grey, concrete walls. Fleeing couldn't have been a split second decision, a spark of intuition after a sharp awakening from sleep. It was impossible to orchestrate something so looming so quickly.

Josh must have planned months on this very thing – longer than Mike had ever been locked up.

Now he wasn't such a loon after all.

 


	19. Chris

My hands are clamped around the steering wheel of my rusting, clanging, skeleton of a car. They feel clammy and sweaty against the melting, black leather - that fact alone not entirely helping out my situation.

I flex my fingers anxiously, leaning forward and resting my forehead against the back of my hands, knocking my glasses in the process. "Ow," I whimper, but the sharp pain dulls almost immediately, diluted by what is waiting for me inside the building I'm parked outside.

Sam called me. At first I'd seen her name flash on the screen of my cell phone and I'd panicked. My immediate thought had shot to the stalker - she'd been captured, held captive and the man holding her hostage was ringing me so that she could say her last words before he slit her throat.

And I thought  _Ash_  was the one with the overactive imagination.

I had picked up the cellphone slowly, my voice filled with trepidation as I'd croaked out a, "Hello?"

Man, was I relieved to hear Sam's voice on the other line; a Sam that didn't sound like she had a knife pressed against her jugular.

Turns out she was panicking for another reason altogether.

"Come on, Chris," I slap my hand against the steering wheel over and over. "Get it together."

Ashley refused to come. She'd insisted on demanding where I was going, who I was seeing; I couldn't lie to her. Not when her face was torn up with worry like that. She'd already had a rough enough day. I couldn't chip away at her anymore.

And when she'd found out about Josh, she'd shaken her head over and over, her feet fixed firmly on the dusty floorboards of our hallway. It wasn't hard to guess that Ashley held a grudge against Josh after all he had put us through. I'm sure she still has nightmares of seeing him torn to shreds beside her, of her face sprayed with his blood, of my hand shaking as I'm reaching for that gun and pressing it against the sticky, cold underside of my chin. And, in her dreams, there aren't any blanks.

We share the same nightmares.

She'd kept shaking her head, her stern, broken eyes brimming with tears, her voice begging me not to go. But I had to go.

He's my best friend. I've hurt him enough already.

With a deep, unsteady breath, I peel my forehead back from the steering wheel, dropping my hands and slowly opening the car door into the cool, night air.

And I step out into the liquid light from a nearby lamp post, climbing up the steps that lead to Sam's apartment building.

* * *

"You called Chris," is the first, blatant phrase I hear from Josh as I push the door open.

"Yes, Josh," is Sam's response from the other end of the hall.

Normally, I'm the kind of guy to knock, not break through windows. Apparently, Josh is the opposite. The spray of glass glistens in the dim, narrow hallway, a few shards crunching underneath my feet. Maybe if I'd realised that fact about him earlier, we would never be having this problem - or any problem stemming from that horrific mountain.

"Hey, bro," I creak the living room door open, glancing to see Josh sprawled back against the sofa, pressed against the wall to the right. I'm always constantly amazed that Sam managed to fit a sofa in this tiny room, never mind all the other stuff she's stuffed in.

Sam looks relieved to see me, standing in the middle of the room, across from the doorway. I can't tell if she's keeping her distance from her resident escaped criminal or because she just can't sit still.

"Cochise," Josh drawls, sounding tired. The orange jumpsuit looks baggy on his now scrawny figure. I don't know if he's glad to see me, or if he feels betrayed by Sam because she called someone. He should be glad it wasn't the police.

"I tried to get him to turn himself back in," Sam whispers when I move in closer to her. Just in case, I close the door behind me. "But he keeps saying that it's cold outside." Sam looks like she's on the brink, her eyes shivering with tears. They are trapped in her lower lashes, threatening to escape down the sides of her cheeks.

"Was there any-"

"No," she shakes her head, a tear whipped loose. "I checked on the website. No photos. Thank  _goodness_."

I sigh with relief. If any pictures of Josh breaking into Sam's apartment had been leaked on the Internet, Mike wouldn't be the only one being charged as a criminal.

Before Sam had called me, I'd been working on my little, crude laptop, attempting to trace the website back to its original owner. I hadn't been there long enough to uncover the results, but it hadn't been looking very successful.

"Go. Make yourself some tea or... something," I awkwardly attempt to encourage her, shuffling my shoulders and assuring her that I can deal with Josh. Though I'm not so sure I can.

Sam nods reluctantly. She looks shaken as she slips out of the room, closing the door behind her.

I take a breath, taking off my glasses to rub my eyes, before replacing them and turning to face Josh.

"Hey, man-"

"He doesn't like me," Josh announces, pointing in front of him. There, hunched low, is Wolfie. There is a low grumbling growl coming from the back of his throat. Obviously, he didn't trust me, as much as Sam did, to deal with Josh.

"No?" I make an attempt at conversation, my lips tight in an unsure smile. The last time I had spoken to Josh, he was sat behind glass. Now there was no barrier separating us - though Josh evidently had no respect for glass in the first place, given the state of Sam's bathroom window. "He doesn't like me either."

"Hey," Josh unclips his stare from Wolfie and looks up at me. His eyes look so innocent and hopeful, looking for some kind of approval. "Did I get it right?"

His words hit me in the gut. The court. He means Ashley - if Mike had blamed Ashley like Josh had predicted, had been so sure of. My face crumbles.

"Yeah, bro," my voice is quiet, my features falling, "You got it right." I bend down to clap him on the shoulder which earns a flinch from Josh at the sudden contact.

I have never felt so far away from him as I do now.

* * *

I hammer the final nail into the wooden, window frame, stepping back to see my crude attempt at boarding it up. I'd collected the boards we had stored in our flat - from plans of redecoration before our money was only any good for food and bills - that Sam had asked for on the phone from the backseat of my car. I wasn't the most skilled handyman but I was impressed at my ability to be able to actually cover up the whole window.

"Thanks, Chris," Sam says from behind me, leaning against the doorframe.

"Least I could do," I nod, feeling irrationally responsible for Josh escaping prison and harassing Sam. Though she'd never see it as harassment. "Maybe..." I step forward, resting the hammer on the lid of the toilet. "You should let him sleep here tonight. And call the authorities tomorrow..."

"Yeah..." Sam says reluctantly, running her fingers through her hair - my hair is already a mess from doing that all evening - and glancing at the closed, living room door where Josh sits behind. At least Wolfie is there to keep him in order.

I stuff my hand into my jean pocket and pull out my cellphone. I lift it up to show Sam before squeezing past her into the hallway. "I'm gonna phone Ash. Let her know everything's okay."

"Yeah. You do that," Sam agrees before she slips back into the living room. Probably to make sure Josh doesn't attempt to break through the window in that room too - though Wolfie's probably doing a great job of that already.

I hover in the hallway, listening to the constant ringing in my cellphone as I call our home number. One, two, three rings. Four rings. I can feel myself holding my breath, the condensation sticking to the plastic of the phone. Five.

Click.

"Yo!" I hear my voice recorded on our voicemail machine. "You've reached the Chris and," Ashley's voice pipes in with her name before my voice is continuing, "Residence. We're probably off having a romantic getaway someplace in the Himalayas or in the bedroom." This is followed by Ashley's distant giggle. I remember recording this message with her. I'd been trying to hold in my laughter then, battling Ashley's poking fingers away from me so I didn't break my stream of words, grinning from ear to ear. "Leave a message and we'll call back when we're finished with our  _massages_." Ashley had cringed then at the terrible pun. "Peace!"

The phone beeps and I drop my hand in fear. Ashley hasn't picked up.

She always picks up.

 


	20. Sam

Chris had abandoned ship pretty quickly after that phone call. He'd kept muttering something about Ashley and how he had to go, pressing 'call' on his cellphone numerous times, but always dropping his hand in defeat after every one.

I had assured him that I would be fine on my own, that he should go to her, whatever the problem was. I'm sure that, even if I had said anything else, his obligation would still be with Ashley - he'd always go to her, regardless. She was one hell of a lucky girl.

"Josh," I finally pluck up the courage to face the elephant in the room, the one lounging on my sofa. Though he's a little more orange than grey.

He has grabbed the nearby television remote - obviously too scared to move very far for fear of Wolfie snapping at him - and is aimlessly flicking through channels, creating an erratic, irritating mash up of news reporter voice, commercial jingles, and the latest scandal in a soup opera.

"He left," Josh says blatantly as his dull eyes are fixed on the screen - though I can't tell if he's looking at it or just looking through it.

"Yes," I say cautiously, my response equally as curt.

"He always chooses her over me," he huffs, rolling his shoulders, the action alerting Wolfie, his rumbling growl growing louder. Josh uncomfortably meets Wolfie's dark, beady gaze and I consider calling him to heel. But it's probably a good idea to at least have  _somebody_  keeping Josh in order. Josh suddenly snaps his gaze to me, his expression twisting in hurt. "You know he  _totally_  tried to kill me over her?"

That's it. "No!" I snap, shooting forward and glowering down at him. He tips his head up, his deep, black pools of eyes peer up at me, shocked. Wolfie even starts at the sudden movement, shuffling back. " _You_  forced him into that situation! Do you really think he wanted to make that choice?! Do you  _really_  think he wanted to lose you?!"

It feels like somebody has poked my eyes with needles, pricking little holes for tears to squeeze out.

I don't know the complete details of Chris and Ashley's ordeal that night, two years ago. Chris had indulged about as much as a wet sponge. But I know enough to tell it was more than harrowing – to think that your best friend had died at your hand... that would haunt  _me_  for life.

Josh whimpers, recoiling. "You don't have to get mad at me, Sammy," he whispers.

"No," I say plainly, swiping away a stray tear in anger, a red blotch left in its wake. "I do! You can't just break out of prison, smash through my bathroom window and expect me to be  _happy_  about it!"

He looks terrified, curled in on himself. I've even got Wolfie cowering in a corner.

"I just-" my words are cut off by huffs of frustration and pent up anxiety, accumulated like dust since this day's beginning. "I just..." My energy sizzles and then puffs out and I collapse onto the sofa with a thud, covering my face with my hands.

"Sorry, Sammy," Josh says cautiously, and through my smeared tears and weave of fingers, I can see a flicker of remorse on his features. But more than that, anger - anger at himself for making me upset, anger at me for letting him make me upset. I can't even tell anymore, though, if he's sorry for what he said, or just because it made me cry.

And I don't think he's ever once felt those feelings about what he did atop that mountain. I don't think he's sees anything to regret...

"It's okay, Josh," I say weakly, dropping my hands from my face, letting my head drop back against the soft, sofa cushions.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Josh bite his lip cautiously as he slides his hand very carefully in my direction. His fingers crawl along the sofa cushion like a spider until they hover next to my thigh and then softly brush against my fingers. Electricity shocks my skin. I jerk my hand away.

I'm obviously not  _that_  okay.

The droning voice of the news reporter on the television screen catches my attention. Josh's face has flashed up in a box on the screen, a photo taken about two years ago, when he was put into custody. His cheeks were fuller then, his bones cushioned by muscle and skin. The picture of him there is barely recognisable.

"Josh Washington, a convicted arsonist, has recently breached the security of the Federal Correctional Institution in Otisville, New York, and is currently on the loose," the man reads blandly from his script, his eyes drooping. I'm sure if anyone gave him a pillow now, he'd be napping on his desk. "Local authorities are asking citizens to stay calm and call the emergency services at any possible sightings of the fleeing criminal."

"They keep saying that," Josh lolls his head to the side, his chilling eyes locked on the news reporter, as if he could drill lasers through the man's eyes. "I didn't... I didn't do  _anything_."

If only that were true.

"Remember, Josh?" I turn to look at him, but his face is locked in position away from me, his cheek marred by an ugly, stretch of a scar. "Your parents?"

I remember the trial vividly. After the Washingtons had been informed about the state of their lodge and of their son, they had panicked. And, for them, the best choice was for Josh to be in a stable prison environment where he'd be able to recover some crumbs of his sanity, and be kept away from the public eye. Probably so it wouldn't harm their public image. Great parents. So charges of arson had been pressed against Josh – there wasn't much else legally he could be put away for – and without any financial backing from his parents for a lawyer, Josh had been sentenced as guilty for reasons of insanity almost immediately.

Josh nods his head lazily and I almost fear that his neck will snap.

Then he freezes

"Ssshhhhhhh," he slithers, his eyes bulging out of their sockets as his gaze unnaturally snaps to the window. He stabs the off button on the TV remote, cutting the screen to black.

"What?" My throat dries.

"Shhhh!" He hisses more violently, clocking his head to me for a brief second, his index finger fitting over his lips. And then he pulls himself to his feet, lugging himself to the curtained window.

"Wait," I breathe, following him and tugging on his elbow. I almost flinch at feeling the bony arm underneath his jumpsuit. "You can't go to the window. Someone will see you."

But, just like Josh, he doesn't listen. His hand reaches for the edge of the curtain and I stretch to stop him. But he's jerked it open before I can yank on his wrist.

And there, trapped in the window frame, fluttering in the wind, is a piece of paper – stark white against the black night backdrop – with these printed words on it;

_**WATCH YOUR BACK** _

And printed underneath is a photo from that site, a picture of Chris and I at the courthouse, my back to the camera – but this photograph is zoomed in enough so I can read the text that has been typed and weaved into the back of my suit jacket;

_**CLUES** _

 


	21. Jessica

This is illogical. Anyone in their right mind would be able to tell that this is illogical.

"Matt," my slightly strained voice lays it out for him. "Emily is dead."

"That's the whole point," Matt's voice slurs, tipping his wine glass into his mouth, only to be reminded that it is empty. He looks about to throw it across at the wall. "She's a ghost. She's haunting me."

I've been hearing the same ridiculous statements for the past ten minutes, each word accompanied by the slurping of alcohol. At some point, Matt had even helped himself to my glass - not that I was complaining. It hadn't tasted brilliant, anyway. I've always been more of a white wine girl.

I let out an exasperated sigh, my patience running low, falling back against the sofa cushions. "That's ridiculous."

A loud bang crackles the room. I start, my spine zipping up straight. "What was that?" I breathe, feeling a nervous tingling at the ends of my fingertips.  _No. You're not afraid. Come on, Jess. You're being illogical_. I stretch to see around the back of the sofa, my body stupidly clenching up, preparing to see some vase smashed on the floor, some side-table knocked over, Emily standing there with hair jet black and clothes sticky and red. I let out a breath, relieved to see everything exactly as I remembered it - who ever thought I'd ever be happy about that?

"There she goes again," Matt, sighs as if he's used to this, stretching his gangly legs as he pushes himself to his feet. He wobbles, past the sofa, both glasses dangling in his hands. "No, Em," he says sternly, though it's impossible for his words to sound serious when they are tinged with alcohol. "I'm not giving you any wine. You always get cranky when you're drunk."

"Sounds like she's already cranky," I mutter sarcastically under my breath, turning back towards the coffee table, my eyes wide in mocking. This guy is insane.

My eyes catch the corner of one of the newspaper clippings from earlier poking out from under the sofa, where Matt had stashed them in panic. Glancing to make sure Matt is still preoccupied with his wine, I reach down and tug it out, the document sliding with ease.

The weathered, inky newspaper page is crinkled on lines where somebody has folded it. The distinct newspaper texture rubs between my thumbs and forefingers as I peel it open, trying to make as little noise as possible. There, on the creamy page, is an article laying out the details of Emily's case; her murder, how she died, where she died... who killed her. Red ink has seeped through the page where circles have been drawn on specific points on the article. Letters. The first letters of certain words.

"What the-?"

"I got it in the post," Matt's voice behind my ear startles me, almost knocking the crown of my head into his chin. Instinctively, I scrunch the paper up and shove it into my pocket.

"Could you not?" I scoff, swivelling myself to glare at him. He looks highly amused by the warning look on my face, the liquid in his glass sloshes as he chuckles-slash-hiccups.

"I see you like to snoop," he comments bitterly, stumbling his way around the side of the sofa and collapsing onto it. I'm surprised he didn't just roll over the top of it with this state he's in. The sofa would probably crumble in the process.

"Sorry, I-"

"You've changed a lot, Jess," Matt shrugs his shoulders, tipping back another slog of wine. But this time, when the rim of the glass leaves his lips, he looks like he's going to puke it back up.

Grimacing, I shuffle as far away from him on the sofa I can get, praying some of his spew doesn't spray in my direction.

But he seemingly swallows it back down, though, this time, shoving the wine glass onto the coffee table with a clink. "When I last saw you, you were..."

"Yeah, I know," I mutter, trying to look like I'm bored of the story. But in reality, I don't want to be reminded of it; I don't want to go back to that place. I'm scared to. There's too many monsters there - I don't want to face the ones that are inside of me. "I was a mess."

"No," Matt states, lifting his finger pointedly. Though it's less pointing and more drooping. "Well, yeah, you were. But! That's not what I mean." His words are becoming progressively more slurred that I can barely make out what he's saying. He lolls his head back against the back of the sofa cushions, his throat gurgling like he's really going to be sick this time. "Before... you were so... nice."

That slaps me across the face. I was not expecting that.

"What-?"

"You were so nice to  _Mike_ ," he continues. "And Emily. And  _everyone_."

And then I realise he's not talking about me any more. He's talking about himself.

"Hey," I feel some kind of sympathy seep in through my skin, and I brave myself to shuffle closer to him despite the high risk of being splattered by bile. I reach out to rest my palm against his wrist when another bang is propelled from behind me.

"Oh my go-" I swivel around in anger, not even caring if I believe Matt's rambling words or not anymore. "I'm not macking on your  _man_ , Em! You've got him  _all_  to your _self_!"

Matt coughs beside me, reaching out to tug at my wrist, but before he can reach, I've already jumped to me feet and swivel around to face wherever the bang had come from.

"Does this make you  _happy_?!" I demand. "Stealing away his life?! Not letting him move on?! I mean, look at him!" I swing my arm in his direction. Matt's mouth looks like it's shrivelled up as he blinks up at me, frozen. I'm surprised he can even keep his back straight.

"You're ruining his life! Making him bitter and angry and-" My words break with a sob and I'm not talking about Matt anymore. It's about me. It's always been about me. I've always let my monsters creep up on me, cling onto my shoulders, weigh me down. Matt is me - he's frustrated and revengeful, and I am all those things and more. I've never truly moved on from that night because I've never let myself - it has all been building inside of me, flooding me with murky, gunky, unclear water. And I can't breathe. My throat is closed and water is flooding into my mouth and I can't breathe.

"I'm sorry," I croak, aggressively swiping away the tears under my eyes. And without daring to look at Matt, I mutter, with as much strength as I can muster, "I have to go."

And I hurry to the door, grabbing for the handle. And just before I twist and pull, in the reflection in the door windows, I catch a glimpse of the figure behind me, one with a hollow, bloody hole for an eye.

I stumble through the doorway, wiping ferociously underneath my eyes, frustrated at them for crying. I'm not weak. I'm not. I'm not-

Where I expect the stairwell to be stands a stalk still Tag.

"What the hell?!" I blurt out, staggering backwards, my heel catching on the threshold. I yelp just as I'm falling backwards into Matt's apartment. My hands grab desperately for the door frame, the door handle, anything. They miss. I tumble towards the ground just as Tag lunges forward, catching me around the waist.

My breath catches, my gaze staring in shock at the ridge of his nose, inches from mine. I hadn't realised his skin was so smooth. The voice I have honed and perfected over the years for my job notes for me to ask him later what moisturiser he uses.

Tag shrugs nonchalantly, in response to an entirely different question I hadn't even thought to ask; "Reflexes?" Carefully, he sets me back on my feet and only removes his arms when he's confident I won't topple over. I shiver once he does, not knowing if it's because I suddenly feel cold, or because I want to shake away all feelings of him from my body. It feels like his arms are still around my waist, ghostly circling it. I flinch.

"Where," I finally spit out, once I've regained my composure, a stray tear following a familiar track down my cheek. I aggressively swipe it away, "The hell have you been?!"

Tag casually stuffs his hands in the same old jeans and I finally notice he doesn't have that infuriating notepad and pen with him. "I had some... errands to do."

I huff, very tempted to cross my arms over my chest like a child. Instead, I opt for narrowing my eyes at him suspiciously, before reaching into my pocket, passing the scrunched up newspaper and dragging out my cell phone. Just as I stab the power button, my hands trembling despite myself, Tag peers past me into Matt's apartment and inhales, "What the heck did you do to him?"

"What?" I retort, breathing in as I look up from the  _17 missed calls from Greg_  notification on my cell phone screen to follow Tag's gaze. "You mean getting drunk? Trust me, he did that to himsel-"

The sudden sight of Matt collapsed over the coffee table, drowning in a pillow of bile and blood, slices off my words.

"Oh my-" I rush forward into the flat, not even caring about the state of the sofa now as I scurry past it and fall to my knees next to him.

"Call 911!" I cry, glancing towards Tag... who has been replaced by an empty space of air. I swear underneath my breath. "When does that guy stop disappearing?" I mutter despite my panic, as if Matt could hear me, just as I press two fingers against his wet, sticky neck and jab the three digit number into my cell phone.

 


	22. Chris

I forget to lock my car door as I slam it shut – surprised it doesn't just fall off it's hinges with the condition it's in – and, through the dusky darkness, bound up the stairs to our flat. My heavy footsteps pound against the hard concrete, the sound of their slaps echoing through the cold stairwell. Never have I ever cursed a flight of stairs as much as I'm doing now, leaping up two steps at a time, getting closer and closer to Ashley. But the more steps I run up, the more flights I pass, the further she feels away from me. Like our apartment door is sinking further and further down a dark, sticky tunnel. Trust us to only be able to afford a floor six flat in a building with no elevator.

My lungs are burning when I finally stop, my feet almost tripping over themselves, a hollow echo rattling against the close walls. For a second, I just want to collapse over myself; to grab my knees, bend over and  _breathe_. But I don't have time for that. My hand controls me, yanking out the front door key, slamming it into the lock and twisting.

"Ash?" I call out through short breaths as I push the door open, attempting not to sound panicked. If she was here, she'd probably start worrying about me and push me towards a doctor to make sure I haven't developed asthma. Knowing her – and how easily I overreact when it comes to her safety – she's probably just in a huff because I didn't listen to her pleadings not to go to Josh. That would be so typical her.

But... she'd never refuse to answer the phone, no matter who it was. Her mother often phones up regularly, around about this time, to check how Ashley is coping. I'm not entirely sure whether it's because she's worried about her daughter's mental state or because she just plainly doesn't trust me to look after her. Neither of that should concern me simply because it makes Ashley happy. She loves to catch up with her mum – I've often caught her lounging on the cold, wood floor beside the landline in the hall, the phone cradled in her hand, spending hours in conversation with her mum. At times like that, I wouldn't dare disturb her and, as a – probably not so pleasant – surprise, I'd take a stab at making the dinner for that night.

The door thuds shut as I hurry into the apartment, my trained ears hearing nothing but my creaking footsteps and the occasional pounding of the wind against the window panes – a sound I've accustomed myself to be able to sleep through. "Ash?" I try again, willing for her to respond, needing for her to respond. Oh, how much I'd give for her now to pace into the hollow hallway, cross her arms and mock me for being, once again, overly anxious about her.

Nothing.

I let out a painful whimper from the back of my throat, my worst fears taking over. She's been kidnapped. She's been killed. Streaks of blood will scuff the wooden floors, leading me to her mauled, disfigured body, like a rag doll on the floor. Throwing away all preconceptions, I rush through the hallway, flicking the button on the answering machine as I pass, just in case... just in case she called. The distinct, computerised voice echoes through the barely furnished building, my feet pushing me to search every room; "Two new messages."

_Beep._

"Chris?! Chris?!" It's Sam. I can hear her clear voice bouncing like a tennis ball against the bare, hollow walls as I hurry into the living room – nothing. No Ashley – then into the kitchen – still no Ashley. "Oh hell, are neither of you picking up now? Okay, Chris, listen," Sam's voice is so crisp even as I circle into the bedroom. It's as if she's almost in the room with me, her voice ricocheting into my ears, "The photographs; on that site? They're not just photos! They're clues. Messages! Damn, why can't you pick up?" She mutters under her breath before demanding, "Call me as soon as you can."

_Click._

I run anxious fingers through my hair, my eyes darting around to search for some kind of clue, something to tell me where Ashley could have gone. I don't even want to think about the photographs now – whatever Sam was talking about (how the hell could they be messages anyway?) My mind is being tugged by Ashley, always be Ashley. She's never once let go, her firm grip clinging onto me.

I've checked every room. Every bloody single room, every crevice, every shadow. Panic is rising up in me, controlling me, pushing bile up my throat. Tears sting my eyes. I can't think straight. Where? Where?

_Beep._

"Chris?" Ashley! It's her voice! On instinct, like she's pulling on that rope she has wrapped around me, I run to the landline, my eyes connecting instantly with the voicemail machine that holds all the answers right about now. I reach out and cup the black plastic, tempted to shake it, to release all the secrets it holds. But instead, I let my breath steady, keeping my eyes on the bleeping screen as if Ashley could be trapped inside of it. "You weren't answering your cellphone. It kept being diverted." I can hear the distinct sound of distant cars zooming past, her voice barely audible over them. She's outside! Somewhere...

I have to almost glue my feet to the hardwood floor before I go rushing outside blindly in search of her.

"I found something, Chris."

_Where are you?_

I will her to answer, my eyes stuck on the black machine, boring into it. Interrogating it. Staring it down.

"I don't know what it is but it's important."

_Where are you?!_

"I need your help, Chris."

_Where?!_

"I'm at the park. Come qui-"

Before the voicemail message can even finish, I'm lunging myself towards the door, swinging it open and bounding through.

* * *

The wet grass crunches underneath my feet, looking more navy blue in this dark night, rather than green. The chilly air breathes down my neck as I jog across the park, my eyes searching for the distinct outline of Ashley's silhouette. A nearby group of smokers watch me boldly from a park bench, and I awkwardly try my best not to make eye contact. I'm not exactly very enthusiastic with getting involved with drugs as  _well_ as an escaped convict.

My breath shivers in the air. I can see the condensation puffing out of my mouth in blocks, evaporating as soon as it hits the wind. The dark, shadowy trees loom around me like spears and daggers and blades. I wrap my arms around myself, my coat failing to protect me from the chilly air.

"Ash?" I harshly whisper, watching my breath accompany my words, spelling them out in the air.

A nearby swing set creaks, the silhouette of it now ominously resembling a hanging frame rather than the joyous, child's plaything during the day. Things change a lot during the night.

I glance down at my phone screen again, the glow from it my only source of light. I shine it towards shadowy areas under trees and across the stretches of grass. I've been trying to phone Ash on her cellphone multiple times but, typical her, she always leaves it off – to save battery, apparently. She thinks she's being practical. I try not to contest.

"Ashley-?"

"Chris!" Her whisper almost catches me off guard, stumbling backwards. I swing towards her, seeing her huddled under a few branches of a tree.

"Ash!" I let out a breath of relief, rushing towards her and wrapping her body up in my arms. The material of her jacket feels cold and crisp. "Are you alright?" I step back a space to peer at what little I can see of her face. She's covered in shadows but the only thing she's seems uncomfortable about is the cold, her gloved hands rubbing together. "What are you  _doing_  out here?" My voice cracks as I demand an answer from her, my worry resulting in frustration.

Wordlessly, Ashley simply points to the trunk of the tree, a thick, weaving arrow carved into it, showing the tree's flesh underneath. The point of the arrow is positioned upwards, towards the roof of leaves.

"Somebody was leading me here," she explains, cuddling up to my warmth. I think she's secretly glad she's no longer alone out here. "I don't know who but – you know that website you were trying to hack? They sent us a message on there." She swallows, her big eyes, round and looking up at mine. The light of my phone reflects against them.

I shake my head, fear rising up. Unbelievable. They were watching. They knew Ashley had been alone, that the website was up on our computer screen. And they'd taken advantage – for whatever sick reason they had in store.

And of course they knew Ashley would take the bait. She can't resist a good mystery – I'm pretty sure her childhood was consumed with reading Nancy Drew and Enid Blyton novels.

"What was it then?" I ask hoarsely, glancing behind my shoulder just in case there's a shadowing figure watching us, the flash of a camera glinting in the night. Nothing – there's nothing. But in a cold, dark night like this, it wouldn't be hard to hide. They've been pretty skilled at hiding so far. "What... were they leading you to?"

"I don't know," she shrugs, pointing the same way the arrow does. "It's up there."

Cautiously and curiously, I bend my cellphone so that the light shines up past the tree trunk into the branches. There, not too far up, is a piece of white paper tied to a rickety branch, fluttering in the cold wind.

"Is that it?" I breathe and Ashley pauses, following my line of sight.

She shakes her head in bewilderment but comments, "It must be." Her hand stuffs into the jacket pocket, pulling out a stack of folded notes. "Come to the park, in the dark, up in a tree and you will see," she reads the printed text before nodding, lifting her eyes.

Obligingly, I stretch up, my fingers brushing just underneath the paper's edge. Cursing, I stretch up further, almost dislocating my shoulder as I clip the paper between two fingers, tug it and pull it down.

"What is it?" Ashley asks, peering over my elbow at the paper. I shine my cellphone onto it, reading the bold, black text.

"It's an appointment card," I mutter, confusion taking over. I squint, baffled, as my eyes follow the words. "At 10:30am tomorrow... with a Dr. Alan Hill..."

 


	23. Sam

Someone has superglued my eyes to their target. I haven't been able to jerk them away from my computer screen for forty-five minutes. The bright glow from it is giving me a headache, like a throbbing heartbeat inside my skull. Picture after picture, photo after photo, they flick past across my eyes, hovering in my mind like fuzzy memories. Zoom in, zoom in. No messages. Frustration. Move on.

I've been searching through all the photographs posted on this infuriating site for longer than I care to admit. Snapshots of my life, of Chris', Ashley's, Mike's and Matt's. Jess' and even Josh, before he was sentenced.

But nothing is being revealed other than that whoever is taking the photographs is a complete  _freak_. They've mapped out our lives, every moment, every movement. It chills me, more than Josh's fixed gaze on the line of my spine from where he is unmoved on the sofa.

"Do you want some coffee?" He twitches, his jaw slack. My shoulders jerk, my heart almost slamming out of my chest.

"For goodness sake," I breathe out, twisting myself to send him a meaningful glare over my shoulder. "Don't  _scare_  me like that."

He rolls one shoulder, his cheek pressing close to his right one. "Sorry," he whispers quietly, his voice hoarse.

For a moment, the room is so silent, I can just about hear the faint scratching of his fingernails against the scar of his forehead. Then; "I want some coffee," he says quietly when he deems it safe.

"Go make some then," I sigh, a hand running down my face as I slump back in front of the computer screen.

There's a creak from the sofa as Josh heaves himself up, his footsteps heavy and unrhythmic as he moves to the door. For a second, my back straightens with goosebumps and chills, expecting him to creep up behind me, as quiet as possible, and then jump scare me by jerking his face out beside mine and shouting, "Boo!"

Though, knowing him and his horror movie obsession, it would probably be more like, "Heeereee's Joshie!"

My lips part, my chest relaxing, as I hear the living room door creak open and then close and I let out a breath of relief. It finally feels like I can breathe. I've been hiding in the dark spaces away from Josh's line of sight for so long. His eyes were a searchlight, looking for me, always looking, but I was always too preoccupied with my blog and pursuing my dream. At least, that was my excuse. I don't think I was ready to see him; the shape of his face in my mind always twisting into that gruesome mask. I swallow, looking down at my white knuckles, the bones rattling inside my fingers.

I don't think I'm even ready now.

Wolfie has squeezed into the space underneath my desk and his heavy body is spilling over my feet, warming them like a hot water bottle. At first, he had been cowering - from my outburst more than anything - but now I think he's realised that it's quite comfortable under there. I wish I could just curl up under a desk and disappear; just for once. One time when nobody needed me, when I was free from obligations.

Wolfie whimpers underneath the desk, his ears twitching as his eyes are closed and he dreams.

"Yeah, buddy," I mumble, directing my attention back to the screen. "I know. Get back to work, Sam."

With a sigh, I readjust my right hand back onto the now warm, clammy mouse, scrolling down to the next photograph. It's been a system for me; look at picture, is somebody's back to the camera? If yes, zoom in, look for a hidden message on the back. Nothing? Move on.

It's been the same process since I began. I've only found one other message since the one that was left outside my window earlier. It was hidden on a picture of me walking into the New York Times building, written perfectly on the back of my jacket. It was then that I had called Chris, though to no avail, and had to sit through that infuriatingly cute voicemail greeting before I could leave my message.

So I now had a notebook beside me, two words written on them; CLUES and MOUNTAIN. They had been pretty standard and not exactly beneficial to solving whatever the heck this weirdo was trying to tell me.

"Okay, Sam," I breathe out, my eyelids drooping. "Next picture."

I scroll down.

This picture must have been taken about a month ago. It's a photo of me heading into a cafe, a place where I'd arranged to meet Chris for a catch up - though, truthfully, I'd used it as a set up for an article I was writing for my blog. Apparently the owner's father was a Native American by origin and told a lot of stories about their myths and legends to customers. Needless to say, it was an opportunity I couldn't turn down.

"Right, Sam," I lecture myself as I zoom into the picture, a thought flicking into my mind -  _maybe the clues are only hidden on pictures of_ my  _back_  - before my theory is confirmed. There, hidden in the photograph, written once again on my back, is the word FIRE.

"What fire? What the hell has a fire got to do with anything?" I rake my fingernails through my hair, frustration building. Whoever is leaving these clues is just taking me on a wild, goose chase. They're leading me to a dead end, keeping me occupied as they take advantage of me. They laugh at me through their camera lenses. I want to swear at myself for being so stupid.

But I'm too curious, too determined to give up on it now.

My irritation only escalates with the seconds, minutes ticking by, my eyes barely registering the photos anymore. They are now just blurs of colours, of indistinct figures.

I barely hear Josh slump back into the room until the bottom of the coffee cup clinks against the wood of the desk as he sits it beside me. "I said I didn't want any coffee," I groan, not taking my eyes from the screen, my fingers from the keyboard. I've become obsessed.

For a second, I hear Josh hiccup and I swear I'm going to kill that boy for getting into my wine cupboard. But then I glance at him and his head is protruded into his neck and his eyes are wide, afraid I might snap at him again like I had before.

I sigh, guilt setting into my fingertips. I reluctantly reach for the coffee cup, my fingers wrapping around the warm, porcelain handle. With a stretched smile, I lift the cup to my lips, sipping the liquid.

I almost choke, spitting it back out.

"What the hell did you put in this?!" I yelp, my bulging eyes snapping to Josh whose expression is far too smug for his face to handle. " _Salt?!_

"You always  _liked_  things salty," he gurgles a laugh from the back of his throat.

"Ew," I almost whack him across the stomach, though, I hate to admit, my voice is slightly tinged with laughter. "Get out."

He obliges, but doesn't forget to accompany his procession with chuckles.

I roll my eyes, a smile tugging on my lips. Josh knew I was feeling frustrated and tense and he had the exact thing to lighten me – sometimes his ideas aren't so great... but he has the best intentions.

My mind is more relaxed as I search through more photographs, sifting back to a year ago now. Wolfie shuffles at my feet, still deep in sleep. At least he knows how to relax.

It's not long before I find the next two words; MIKE and EVIDENCE.

My throat closes up as I finally connect the dots. This is about Mike's case. This is about evidence for his case...

The next word – COURT – confirms this.

"What about Mike's court case? What evidence are they on about?" I grow tired, my mind pumping too fast for my skull to hold.

But soon, everything just clicks together.

And it all comes down to the last word; VIDEO.

Holy crap.

That's it. That's what Mike needs to get a not guilty verdict.

"Josh?!" I call out, not even caring now if the neighbours hear me. "Josh!"

He pokes his head round the door, his chin resting against the side of it at an odd angle.

"Do you remember? Upon at the lodge, you said you were going to put us on the Internet?!"

Josh lolls his head lazily, his eyes rolling about the place. "Ummmmm, yeah."

"You were... filming."

He nods, looking confused. "Can I finish my coffee now?"

"Yeah yeah," I wave my hand nonchalantly, lost in thought. I don't even care if 'coffee' is a codeword for alcohol. "You go get your coffee."

And as Josh disappears back round the door, his clumping footsteps uneven as they lead him to the kitchen, my thoughts finally, for once, make sense.

The one thing Mike needs to be free is something to prove the Wendigos existed. And those creatures were in the lodge, at the time that Josh had set up the cameras, had been rolling the footage... filming it all!

All Mike needs are those video tapes!

 


	24. Interlude 4 - Ashley, Josh, Mike

**Ashley**

It's cold in bed. Ashley feels Chris beside her, and yet she still shivers. The memory of the event at the park trails its freezing fingers down her back, joining the crowd of other hands clawing at her skin. Chris is fast asleep beside her, his black-rimmed glasses placed neatly on the side-table, his hair flopping and flattened. Last night, it was Chris who was having the nightmares. Tonight, she knows it's going to be her.

So, as if he is her rope wrapped around her waist, assuring her she won't plummet into the abyss, she reaches out under the covers, her fingers brushing his skin as she fingers his hand. And she gently places hers in his so that, when she gets trapped in her nightmares, he can tug her out.

And, in response, she feels Chris' hand squeeze hers for a brief second before she closes her eyes, preparing herself for the darkness.

* * *

**Josh**

She said, "Stay in this room." She doesn't trust him, it hurts. Josh cuddles up on the floor, his back resting against the sofa, his arms wrapped around his knees as he rocks softly back and forth.

The clothes that Chris left earlier sits sprawled on a pile in front of him, waiting to be worn. She told him to put them on. But Josh doesn't want to. His orange jumpsuit is his costume. It is his disguise, his rouge. If he takes off his jumpsuit, he gets hurt. If he takes it off, if they see it's him, they'll hate him.

The wolf stares at him from across the room, his gleaming eyes peering out from the darkness. Josh shivers and whimpers. He doesn't like dogs. Dogs don't like him.

Both their ears prick up at the same time, hearing the creaking of the bed next door, of her weak cries. She's awake. She can't sleep.

Josh jumps to his feet and the wolf races him to the door. He needs to see her, to make her happy. Is this his fault? Is she crying because of him?

His hand freezes before it reaches the door handle.

She said, "Stay in this room."

Josh stumbles a step back, his chin collapsing against his chest.

Josh always does what Sammy says.

* * *

**Mike**

He hears it in his head. _Guilty_. Over and over. _Guilty. Guilty. Guilty._

And it's no longer the judge saying it, the snapping of her gavel against the podium, it's Emily. She stands in front of him, claiming the judge's voice as blood spills out of her mouth with every movement. She is coming closer, her neck cracking as her head lolls to the side, the skin around her bullet-pierced eye, peeling, revealing blood and muscle and bone. Her skin is rotting, maggots crawling out from the creases at the sides of her swollen lips. Her hair grows brittle in clumps, shedding off like snakeskin, every creaking step she takes towards him, where he's sat huddled on the cold, prison cell wall, she loses more of herself. Her skin wrinkles, her teeth sharpen, cutting through her gums. Her lips shrivel up.

And then she's it. She's the wendigo.

And she's two inches from his face, white, rotting eyes bulging at him.

She seethes, her bony, protruding shoulders heaving up and down with her heavy breath.

_Get me out of here!_

Then she lunges for his neck.


	25. Jessica

I officially hate my cellphone. The minute I turned it on inside the walls of the hospital, while Matt was getting his stomach pumped, it had spluttered with a seizure from all the text messages and missed calls and voicemail messages from a very unwanted Greg. I thought my phone was my ally; I would have expected it to at least have the sense to divert Greg's calls and delete him from my life.

I huff, my black-screened cellphone gripped in my tight fingers. It's tempting to just propel it across the crisp white, hospital hallway and watch it smash with a satisfying crack against the wall. Thank goodness I, instead, have an excuse to have it switched off. The "No Cell Phone Zone" notice pinned to the wall across from where I'm seated has now been dubbed my best friend.

It turns out that Matt had choked on his own vomit and had fallen and cracked his head open on the edge of his coffee table. The doctors had determined it a crisis enough to lug him into the emergency room and expect me to sit around in the waiting room. At first, I was going to leave him there. I'd figured that paying for the ambulance to take him to one of the most prestigious private hospitals would have been enough. But when the hospital's automatic doors had effortless slid open and I'd been knocked with a reality-hitting blast of cold, fresh air. And something in my gut had been tugging me back. Guilt.

It wasn't faceless. It looked exactly like Matt, his face scarred and battered with tears, his eyes bleary from the alcohol. He was killing himself and I was just walking away. I was doing the exact opposite to what he had done when he'd found me exactly that way inside those mines.

And the guilt had taken control of my limbs, like it had infiltrated my brain and now was running the controls, and steered me back inside the building, back through the wide, white corridors, back to the waiting area outside his room.

It's uncomfortable here. Even if the nurses and doctors and everyone passing isn't looking, they are still _seeing_. They're seeing a weak, broken girl huddling inside a hard shell, hoping that someone will crack her open and finally release her. She hasn't found anyone she trusts enough, though, to do that yet.

And she's just scared that someone will hoist her up and jolt her about inside that shell like a rattle.

Restlessly, I trace my index finger aimlessly in circles on the skin of my other hand, finding it the only comforting thing in this whole building. Even if the corridors are wide, they still feel suppressing, closing in on me, forcing me to feel claustrophobic. I feel weak and unwanted and out of place.

I distract myself by scanning my eyes across the noticeboard pinned up on the wall across from the seats. All the words and pictures blur into one, a mess of advice and propaganda. The only poster that catches my attention is one that depicts a dark, cartoon hill with sunshine peeking out over the horizon. And the catchy catchphrase somebody has been paid hundreds for is, "You can get over that hill with Dr. Hill."

I scoff at it before adjusting myself in the cushioned seat – which is, apparently, supposed to be comfortable – and rest my head against the cold, white wall. I've had better advertisements for my speeches.

For the first time all night, my eyelids grow heavy. Just as I close them, the imprint of that image on the poster floats in front of the darkness.

And, at some point, I fall asleep.

* * *

"Jessica," somebody hisses beside my ear.

I grumble through closed eyelids, my hand snapping out, in danger of hitting whoever has disturbed my sleep. Serves them right.

"Jessica! Wake up!" The voice is more persistent and, for a second, a flash of recognition registers in my brain. Then it tugs my eyelids open and I see his infuriating face in front of mine.

"What the hell?" I mutter in disbelief under my breath, scoffing him. Tag looks unfazed as his dark, chocolate eyes peer out from the centre of his caramel skinned face. He doesn't look like somebody who has been hit with worry about a man he was so insistent to help, or the woman he had roped into it.

"Get up," he says, his eyes boring into me, his hand gripping my arm. I glance down at it in shock, his skin a dark contrast to mine. Aggressively, through my half asleep state, I shake him off me. He's entirely unperturbed.

"Ex _cuse_ me," I straighten my back, realising I hadn't exactly been napping in the most attractive position, my legs curled up under my body, my head lolled over the arm that is draped over the back of a nearby chair. My spine is stiff as I compose myself, my shoulders aching. I wince a little at the pain but refuse to let Tag see it. " _You_ were the one who had disappeared when Matt was practically bleeding out-"

Tag's rolling of eyes cuts me off, obviously impatient with me, before he merely points purposefully down the corridor behind me.

"What?" I sigh, irritatingly glancing in that direction. Then I freeze.

Hands clasped together, Chris and Ashley, anxiety etched on their faces, pace down the corridor towards me. They haven't seen me yet – their eyes are too distracted by the overpowering walls looming over their heads. I don't think they've looked any more uncomfortable than in this far too classy hospital.

Although, I have to admit, it hasn't met my standards either.

"Oh no," I shake my head, panic and exasperation shooting the words out of my mouth. My lips curve in an unimpressed grimace as I twist my neck back to face Tag. "You are _not_ making me speak to them too-" He's gone. He's disappeared again. That asshole.

My jaw goes slack as I stare at the space where he was only a few minutes again, dumbfounded and feeling betrayed. When I find him next, he's going to be rewarded with a slap straight in the face. That is, if he doesn't disappear before hand.

"Jessica?" Chris' surprised voice is the worst thing I could hear right now. My jaw tightens and then relaxes as I adjust a pleasant expression on my face, turning to look at the couple. Chris looks surprisingly unsure, like he expects me to react the exact same way I had in the prison's visitor room. Ashley just looks plain surprised. "Are you... here for an appointment too?"

He pulls an appointment card from his pocket, flashing it towards me and I catch a glimpse of the unlucky doctor who has to see to them; Dr. Hill.

I scoff, shaking my head in disbelief. Do they really think I'm that in desperate need of psychological therapy? A pang of betrayal and hurt surges through me. "Thanks, guys," I spit with sarcasm. "It's nice to know you think so _little_ of me."

"No," Ashley pipes up, finally braving herself enough to disconnect her hand from Chris' as she takes a step towards me. I feel cornered, wanting to step back to retain the safe distance. But the panicked breaths inside my throat are not enough for me to back down. I stamp my feet inside the slots in the floor and refuse to move. My chin lifts triumphantly.

"We weren't suggesting-" Ashley insists, reaching her hand out for me. My eyes flash with fear for a second, my throat closing up.

Then, for the first time in my life, I'm thankful for Chris' presence. "What's this?" he asks, cautiously curious as he leans down to pick up a scrunched up piece of paper wedged in between the seat I was on and the one next to it. Instinctively, my hand flies to my pocket, finding it empty.

I swear under my breath.

"Is this yours, Jess?" He asks, glancing up at me.

I'm tempted to shake my head, pressured into a corner, but Ashley is moving towards Chris, peering at the red, circled letters. There's a gap beside them, a place where I could rush through and escape this dreadful place.

But Ashley's voice, spelling out what she is reading, knocks me in place. "Y.O.U... You... C.A.N... can- what's this?"

Chris follows her finger, reading along with her, his lips mouthing the letters. Then their voices conveniently match each other's, both deciphering the same message; "You can get over that hill."

_With Dr. Hill._


	26. Chris

Is this some kind of sick form of subliminal messaging?

I hadn't felt at all at ease stepping into this deluxe hospital that rich people just throw money at. Dollars splatter against the chrome walls like eggs, smeared and dripping with white shell and sloppy yolk. It's the equivalent of reaching _Level 99_ in the video game of life _._

Inside those compressing walls, I feel like a puzzle piece that someone was shoving into the last available space – but I just won't fit. The cramming crushes my edges, suppressing and suffocating me. But I don't belong to that jigsaw. I don't even belong in that box.

I don't know if I even belong anywhere.

Ash squeezes my hand beside me. No. I'm wrong. I have Ashley. She's where I belong. She's my home.

The skin at the back of my neck prickles. I'm staring down at the decrepit newspaper clipping in my all too clumsy fingers, bewilderment and fear sizzling up my back like a burn. Eyes watch us through the walls – no, there are no walls. Not anymore. There is never anything that promises us privacy. Our lives are public property.

This hospital is incredibly skilled at making me uncomfortable.

"When did you get this, Jess?" I ask, glancing to her quickly, trying to swallow my panic. This was no coincidence that we were both led to this infamous Dr. Alan Hill. The person that had coerced Ashley away, had taken her on a bread crumb trail to this damn appointment card was leading Jessica to him too.

What the hell did a psychiatrist have to do with anything?

The gears are working in Ashley's head; I can see them twisting and churning behind her eyes. She's thinking, she's working this out – she was always much better at that than me. "Who gave this to you?" She asks, her determination pushing her forward

Jessica looks like she's in the worst place possible right now. Her eyes keep flickering behind us, to the glimmering, green exit sign. If Ashley had ever been invited inside my brain, she'd definitely be piping up right about now, proclaiming that those signs are just like Oz's Emerald City – a place that indicates perfection, but ultimately lies. I'd just compare it to the charging sign on my cellphone when I plug it in to the socket.

Jessica's jaw tightens and I can see the debate in her eyes. Ashley looks like she wants to reach over and comfort her – or shake it violently out of her.

"Matt," Jessica breathes, her gaze flickering away, landing anywhere but on us. She bites her lip uncomfortably – I'm sure if it was her birthday, she'd be using her candle wish on us; precisely that we didn't exist.

I hadn't exactly had the most positive reunion with her in the prison visitor room. It didn't bode well for me.

"Matt?" I stare in disbelief, scratching the back of my neck. Was he the one behind all this? I find myself matching Ashley's steps forward, instinctively standing beside her again – like a magnet.

Jessica lets out an exasperated sigh, and I can tell that she's panicking. She feels like she's cornered too – and not just here. All the time.

She's just like me.

"He's here," Jessica spits out, her voice breaking. Her knees look like they're about to buckle underneath her, sending her tumbling to the cold, probably-marble floor. But, of course, she'd always do it elegantly.

Ashley tenses beside me. Her I know instantly; Matt hates her. He must, after what had happened in that room with Emily... and after Mike practically announced to the whole world that it was all Ashley's fault. My hand wants to twist into a fist at the reminder, but instead I focus those feelings into reaching out for and squeezing Ashley's hand reassuringly.

She doesn't need to know that I hate for her, so she that has room to breathe.

"...Where?"

But before Jess can even consider refusing to answer, a doctor approaches her wearing a cliché, long white coat – though his one is probably made out of silk.

"Madam," he says curtly, though there is a knowing glint in his eyes. It isn't entirely settling. I wouldn't be paying for him as a doctor, no matter how expensive his uniform was. "You can see him now."

She clenches her jaw and there's a brief moment where we share a look; _I can't believe he called me 'Madam'_. And then she rearranges a polite, practiced smile on her face. "Thank you."

* * *

Five minutes to go. Five minutes until this souvenir of an appointment. I still don't know what the hell we're doing here. I don't know why I was coerced into agreeing to follow whatever the heck this ' _clue'_ was.

But Ashley being Ashley can't just walk away from something like this. I half expect her to pull out a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker hat and shove a bowler hat on my head and declare that I'm John Watson. I should have come prepared and brought a pipe.

"I'm nervous," Ashley breathes, restless beside me on the maroon waiting room. This area of the hospital feels entirely different to the pristine, chlorine smelling halls we had been hovering in before. Someone has obviously attempted to design this waiting room to look as homely as possible, with Victorian doppelgänger wallpaper clinging to the walls, a clothes stand beside the door and there's even a plant in the corner. Of course. There's _always_ a plant.

The woman behind the reception clicks her pen against the side of her mouth over and over as her eyes scan the same piece of paper endlessly. I just want to reach forward and snap it from her fingers, ripping it to shreds. That would be one less problem for her.

"Me too," I admit, glancing to Ashley who's biting into the flesh of her bottom lip. In the span of seconds, I've prayed that nothing to follow this moment will be taxing on her mental state. She's determined that she can handle it – that just because I'm the guy doesn't mean I'm better than her. But I'm scared that, one of these days, something will break her.

Above the reception, someone has pinned up a wide mirror. I can see our reflections in it, our dishevelled, thrifted clothes and our forehead creased with trepidation. We look so different, so out of place. So... empty.

I hate looking at my reflection.

The phone at reception turns out to be our ally in this situation – bursting to life just at the right time before I go insane from that pen clicking. The receptionist drops the pen, clattering it against her desk, before she plucks the phone from it's nest.

"Yes," she hums, seeming to also be relieved to get away from that piece of paper. "Yes... Yes, they're here." Here eyes flicker over to us and I tense. Ashley straightens her back, swallowing. It isn't hard to find her hand and take it in mine. It seems to be something I do a lot lately – maybe it's more for my comfort than hers.

"Okay, thank you... goodbye."

The phone goes down with a click and then she's raising her eyes to us. "You can go through now," she smiles all too politely, indicating the door to her right with her hand.

We have to peel ourselves from the seats, completely convinced that we don't, under any circumstances, want to step inside that room.


	27. Sam

"I'm gonna get you out of here."

Behind the glass, Mike looks hopeless. His eyes droop, rimmed in red, his skin sagging - he hasn't smiled in so long. He's a hollow shell of what he once was, this place chipping and chiselling away at him until there's nothing left.

"Just," I insist, hissing through the receiver, my eyes determined as they latch onto Mike's. The passion inside his is nonexistent, "Prolong the trial for one more day. Please."

He averts his eyes, sighing, and his shoulders droop. "I was," he starts pausing, as if he's forgotten what words are. "I was going to plead guilty."

"What?" I snap, staring at him. "Mike." He refuses to look at me. He feels like he's betraying me by pleading guilty - but betraying himself by pleading not-guilty. "Mike!" I hiss sharply. "Look at me."

He does. It takes a long time but he does. And the look he gives me, I know, will haunt me forever; he's giving up.

" _Nobody_ is pleading guilty. Okay?"

He nods tiredly but I can't trust that he's being genuine. For all I know, he'll go behind my back and plead guilty anyway.

"Okay?" I repeat, catching his eyes so at least he can see how serious _I_ am. Then, with a final farewell, I add, "Trust me." Then I replace the receiver back on its stand, stand up from the seat and start my mission of saving his ass.

But first, I've got to make sure another ass hasn't been arrested in the process.

* * *

Every step I take makes my heart thump harder, bashing against the prison bars of my ribs. It would only take seconds. 1 second for someone to look, 2 seconds for them to recognise Josh, 3 seconds to call the police.

"Keep your head down," I had repeated for about the fifth time before we'd left my apartment. "Don't look at anyone. Don't say anything." I felt like a criminal.

As much as I don't want to admit it, I need Josh. He's the only one who knows where the tapes are, the only one who can access them... if they're still intact.

I had practically barged into the local police station, demanding whether they knew anything about video tapes from the mountain. They had insisted that they could not disclose any information, even if it wasn't their sector that had excavated the site. That meant no. They knew nothing.

And so I had no choice but to find it myself.

The cable car creaks and sways to a standstill as it clicks into its final destination. I swallow. The wind is howling outside, whistling through the cracks like it's trying to squeeze it's long, clawed fingers in to scratch us. It's too soon to be up here - it will always be too soon.

I keep Wolfie close to my side, just for protection. Josh hates having him here, eyeing him every second, his eyeballs rolling in their sockets. But Wolfie is the best, sane chance I have at surviving this mountain. He knows this place inside out; not that long ago, it was his home. I lean down to clap him affectionately. I'm glad to have his company.

The doors slide open with a screech, rusting metal grating against metal. And the wind clutches on to me as soon as it can.

"Why are we here?" Josh's eyes almost bulge out of their sockets as he squeezes himself into the far corner of the cable car, his arms wrapped around him protectively. It's like, when I forced him to wear Chris' clothes, I had peeled a layer of skin off him and now he's bare and raw. "We- We shouldn't be here!"

"Josh," I say as calmly as I can, though I can feel my own panic creeping up my back. The more we stand still, the more distressed I feel. We need to move fast, get up there as fast as possible – and get out as soon as we find the video. How ironic that 2 years ago, it was opposite that ensured our safety. "Remember," I step forward, reaching out to place my hands on his shoulders. For a second, his eyes are flashing with fear, darting to Wolfie. I motion for the wolf to step back otherwise Josh could be unpredictable. But as soon as I touch Josh, he calms down. "The video? We have to get the video."

He nods slowly, realisation passing over his face. "The video," he repeats, some wilted form of confidence building as he straightens himself and bravely follows me out the door, Wolfie using his instincts and leading the way.

The mountain looks different without its coat of snow. It looks naked. It only wears small, insignificant patches of snow in places that the sun couldn't pry it's fingers into.

And yet I still shiver. It's still the same place, still the place where we almost died... where Emily did die. And Beth. And Hannah.

No. This is not about them. It's not about you, Sam. This is about Mike. This is about getting justice and standing by each other and _surviving_. The horror didn't end when we stepped off that mountain. It was always hovering behind us, waiting to pounce. Now Josh and I have returned to it's playground. I can just imagine it grinning in menacing excitement.

It's not just the two of us anymore.

"Josh," I breathe, stepping out across the wooden, cable car platform, in the direction that Wolfie is slowly progressing towards. I know that Wolfie wants Mike as free as I do - he probably misses him. Josh follows close behind me, his eyes looking around as if his memories are adjusting, recalling this place that he used to own. Every single movement is just that little bit hunched. "Listen to me," I attract his attention, pulling his eyes to mine. He blinks twice, three times, his mind churning only in one direction at once. "When we get up there, you take me _straight_ to where you recorded the footage. Alright?"

He cocks his head to the side like a dog, his mind processing my words. Then; "Don't leave."

"I'm not leaving," I promise through a sigh, trying not to sound exasperated. Calm down, Sam. For his sake. For yours. "But we need to find-"

"The footage," Josh nods, it finally clicking. His mind locks onto his target and then he's tugging on my wrist and leading me forward. Wolfie looks doubtful but I whistle for him and he obeys. "Follow me."

It's the first time I've trusted Josh Washington in a long time.


	28. Jessica

He looks a mess. If he was one before, he's even more so now; he's a wreckage. A bruise – that looks far too much like a living, bloody creature pumping underneath his feeble skin – spreads from his swollen cheek all the way up to his temple, just missing his eye.

He hisses as he shifts himself up the bed, his hand instantly flying to the bulge on his forehead. "What the hell happened?" his gruff voice pushes through his tensed teeth.

It's _pretty obvious_ what's happened. Matt's accident must have knocked his eyes out as well as his brains if he can't see it. Being stuffed into a bed in a hospital ward should be a pretty big clue.

The hospital ward is small enough, at least, with wooden panels for walls instead of those horrid white walls in the corridors. Matt shares the room with a few other people, all separated with a maroon, polyester curtain. A widescreen television sits comfortably in a perfectly fitted hole in the wall across from Matt. Thank heavens, I wasn't paying for this room for nothing.

Matt heaves himself into what looks like an attempt at a sitting position. The doctor led me here, explaining that Matt had just woken up; of course, adding another _Madam_ at the end of his sentence. He was very close to needing medical assistance too. The second I'd stepped into the ward, I'd regretted it. Matt looked exactly like I had when he'd found me in that mine. Scarred and scuffed, fumbling around with a shovel in the hopes that I'd be able to hit something through my blurred, desperate mind.

I shiver, my skin prickling like the chilly, mine wind has finally found me. It has come to claim the life it could never do back then. I can feel it slipping down into my throat, choking me. Swallowing me.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Get out. Get these thoughts out. Breathe in. One, two, three. Breathe out. One, two, three.

"Jessica?" Matt's cautious voice breaks through my trance. I snap my eyes open, locking onto him. He looks startled at my sudden irritation.

"What are you... doing here?" He asks slowly, trying to curve his tongue around his words like it's foreign to him. "Why- You look so different."

I make an insulted face at him. I don't know why I volunteered to be here, sitting beside him on the hospital designated chair. At least it's a comfy one.

"I didn't look _that_ bad last night," I scoff, rolling my eyes, though I find the corners tugging upwards into a hint of a humorous smile.

"W-what?" Matt digs his fingernails into the undamaged side of his head, his eyebrows creasing together, causing him to flinch at the movement. A line has been shaved across his skull, allowing the doctors to stitch the wound back up. But it looks like Matt is just as much a shambles as he was before – no sewing would shove any part of him back inside his skull. "Last night?" He stumbles over his words, his eyes flashing with confusion and panic. He's struggling, I can see it. But what with, I don't know. "You... last night? No." He shakes his head, his dark, chocolate eyes focusing, finally sure of his words. "I... don't remember seeing you last night."

He wouldn't. That much alcohol would clog up his brain cells and wash out his memory.

I open my mouth to assure him that nothing happened between us in case he's deluded himself that we slept together. Like I'd lower myself to sleeping with _anyone_ when they're drunk. I have more class than that. But Matt swears under his breath, cutting me off. "Crap. Em is going to _kill_ me."

I roll my eyes, my patience almost snapping, my body ready to push out of the chair and walk out the door. He's on about that ghost rubbish again? Not even a smash to the skull could knock that out of his head?

But then his wide eyes snap to me. He hisses in fear. "And _Mike_."

"What?" I snap, shock yanking up my eyebrows. Last time I checked, it was _Matt_ who wanted to kill Mike. Not the other way around. Did Matt _seriously_ not click on to the fact that I haven't been in a relationship with Mike for at _least_ 18 months? I'd figured Matt would guess that when he didn't see me at the courtroom – maybe he wasn't as smart as I'd given him credit for. Though drinking himself drunk on _wine_ wasn't exactly a clever thing to do.

"Jess..." Matt breathes, all his thoughts a strain on him as his forehead creases in pain. His hand covers his face as he curls his chin towards his chest. "Where's Em?"

I was about to say, _Somewhere trapped in your imagination_ , when his eyes finally focus on me. "She's okay, right?"

Then it hits me. Matt's forgotten.

He's forgotten that he hates Mike.

He's forgotten about the trial.

He's forgotten... that Emily's dead.

* * *

Matt remembers everything about that night on the mountain – except the conveniently _huge_ fact that Emily was shot in the face. Through his rambling, I've pieced together that his memory is not too damaged. But large chunks are missing, chipped out with a chisel. It's almost like it's precise – like someone had purposefully chopped away those parts artistically.

Ironic that it was those exact things he'd been trying to forget with the alcohol.

"Why didn't you tell me he'd wake up with _amnesia_?" I hiss under my breath, my eyes strong as I confront the doctor in the doorway.

He shakes his head solemnly, remorsefully replying with, "We couldn't be sure."

"Like hell," I swear at him. "You could have at least _warned_ me."

The doctor looks at least slightly apologetic but I don't have time to analyse how genuine he is being. By the way he stuffs his hands in his scrub trouser pockets and subconsciously shrugs his shoulders tells me he's not.

"Isn't there anything you can _do_?"

And then I realise... maybe it's better this way. Maybe this way he won't be constantly depressed and drown himself in alcohol. Maybe he won't be in danger of murdering Mike anytime soon – as much as that guy isn't on my list of favourite people right now, I don't want him to _die_.

Maybe Tag won't keep bothering me to help him.

" _Today marks the second trial date for the murder case of-"_

Before the television reporter can finish the sentence with Emily's name, I've sprinted across the room, grabbed the remote from the lab of an elderly man and snapped the channel over.

"Heeeey," the old man grumbles, crossing his arms like a child in his oversized armchair as he pouts in my direction. "I was _watching_ that."

"Well, now you can watch some..." my eyes flash to the television screen to see some gorillas performing something that should only be kept behind locked doors and closed shutters. I cringe. "Nature at work instead."

I smile as politely as I can to the old man, who still looks grouchy.

It doesn't matter. Matt is not finding out this way.


	29. Chris

I've never been so unprepared for anything in my life.

Well, that's an overstatement. I don't think I was ever prepared for a crazy, murdering maniac. Or that he would turn out to be Josh. _Or_ that we'd be almost mauled by a hoard of wendigos.

But this is about fourth on the list.

"Ah, Christopher," Dr Hill greets us as we click open the door to his office. My breath hitches, almost recoiling. He's just standing there, right in front of us, like he was hovering in front of the door, awaiting our arrival. His office is dark. Atmospheric, probably. The unsavoury wallpaper has spread into this room too, like a fungus, but it's overshadowed by the dark wood furniture. From the filing cabinet at the back of the room, to the panelling creeping half way up the walls, to the daunting desk positioned perfectly in the centre of the room. Everything curls and creeps, even if they aren't moving. They push me, compress me, shoving me back out the door.

I grit my teeth and dig my heels into the – of course – dark wood floor. I'm not leaving. Not when this could be the only place we could get some answers. Ashley's eyes are just as fastened onto Dr. Hill as mine are, determined, even though I can sense that her anxiety could kick her legs out from under her. I reassuringly find the small of her back to assure her that, if it does, I'll be there to catch her. I always am.

And she'll be there for me.

Dr. Hill has been grinning far too pleasantly for far too long, his eyes almost forgetting to flicker to Ash. "And, how lovely, Ashley. What a pleasant surprise." His eyes are permanently creased at the corners, either from too many years of eye smiling or something else entirely.

"How does he-" Ashley hisses, her pulse quickening underneath my palm, glancing to me for some kind of reassurance from me. Right now, I feel just as wary as her. But I hold my head up high and let the door fall slowly back into it's frame with a click. An non-confrontational kind of door. Shame. We won't be able to storm out of here with a satisfying slam of the door.

Ashley's words are cut off by Dr. Hill's own, like he's biting off her tongue. With a practiced sweep of his arms, he smiles politely. "Now, come on in, don't be shy," he ushers us in, offering us two armchairs set out neatly in front of his desk. How convenient.

"Thanks," I mutter through tensed teeth, shrugging one shoulder uncomfortably. But I stare him down anyway. He seems completely unfazed, oblivious to my warning glares through the lenses of my glasses, continuing to smile regardless. That smile has been pinned onto his face the minute we stepped through his door. It's making me uncomfortable.

Yet he has some kind of persuasive power over me. I shuffle further into the room, finding one of the armchairs. Ashley looks at me with wary, but at least something good from that night on the mountain has sustained in our minds; never separate. So instead of arguing, she follows close behind, cautiously taking the seat beside me, the one closest to the door.

I nod, making a mental note. Escape route one noted.

I glance to the right of Dr. Hill – who has now circled round to the seat in front of us, behind the desk – a large arched window stretches up halfway up the wall, spilling a bluish, greyish light into the room.

Escape route two noted.

"Now," Dr. Hill's chair creaks as he lowers himself down into it, clasping his hands together on his desk. "I suppose we should have some introductions. I'm," he lifts one vein riddled hand to his chest. "Dr. Alan Hill-"

"Yes," I say bluntly, on the border of scoffing. But my voice shakes as I speak, my throat closing up, attempting to hide it. "It's on the brass plate attached to the door."

"And here," Ashley adds, pressing her finger against the metal, desk name plate sitting in front of her.

"And," I nod, feeling more confident. After all, it is two against one here. We might as well get to the bottom of whatever the hell this is. "We saw it on here." I pull out the appointment card from my pocket which is now slightly curved from my constant sitting I've been doing for the best of the last half an hour.

"Ah," Dr. Hill nods understandingly. He seems pleasant enough – always pleasant enough – but there's something eerie about the dark wisps of hair escaping his comb-back, about the sharp bridge of his nose, of the creases along the side of his mouth, like they're keeping secrets. It sucks for whoever was hired to decorate this part of the hospital; no matter how much they tried to make it feel comfortable, this guy doesn't feel homely at _all_. "I suppose you're wondering why you're here then."

"If that wasn't obvious already," I retort, taking a deep breath in. I'm trying to look confident but my fingers are fidgeting underneath the desk and I'm praying that we'll find out whatever the hell this guy wants with us as soon as possible so we can escape and shake off the creeping feeling off our backs. But Ashley doesn't seem as anxious as me right now. She is far too captivated by some scattered documents on the desk, her eyes scanning the words upside down. And for brief moments, I catch glimpses of recognition on her features, before they crease back to concentration.

I can see Dr. Hill casually look over to her but he doesn't seem at all bothered by her actions. It's like he already knows she too curious for her own good. No psychologist could have determined that so quickly, could they?

"Well, firstly, I'll have to get you to sign one of these," he rolls out one his drawers within the desk, rifles within it and pulls out two sheets of bounded paper, chunks of text dripping down on both pages identically.

"Take your time," he smiles gently, his skin stretching along wrinkles. It gives me the chills. "Feel free to read it." He drops his clasped hands into his lap, leaning back leisurely, shrugging to make his point. "It's essentially just about confidentiality, nothing to worry about."

I eye him cautiously, narrowing my eyes. The page looks daunting, like its staring me down, daring me to sign it. I swallow. Ashley has already taken her copy in her hands and is avidly reading each word. I bet Dr. Hill was using this to his advantage, to sweep away the documents she'd been trying to read before.

I feel a smug smile tug at the side of my mouth when I see him do just that. But Ashley tugs at my arm, dragging away my attention. She's looking up at me, offering me look that assures me _there's nothing worrying on here_. I nod in understanding, trusting her.

Dr. Hill smiles as he watches us. Like he _knows_. Like he knows exactly who we are and what we are to each other.

But, whatever the hell he thinks, the important thing is that _I_ know that signing this pointless agreement is the only way to get whatever information we came here for out of him. So, as confidently as I can, I reach forward and pluck a pen from his metal tub – definitely not something found in Ikea – and quickly scrawl my signature across the line, accompanied by the date. Quick and painless. Just like ripping off a band-aid.

I pass the pen to Ashley who trustingly takes it, our fingers brushing, before she becomes engrossed in re-reading the paper... _just_ to be sure.

"Now," Dr. Hill looks pleased as he invites himself back into the conversation, "All the formalities have been dealt with, I suppose we should get back to business." His eyes narrow, the skin creasing even more so at the corners, as he stretches his lips upwards. He coughs casually, clearing his throat. "You.. both of you, have been very helpful to me."

Now _that_ gets Ashley's attention.

She snaps her head up. "What?" Her voice seems small and wheezy, like someone is squeezing on her windpipe.

Dr. Hill gladly focuses his attention on her. I want to strike forward and wrench his face away from hers, to stop his greasy eyes from sliding all over her. "I don't think," he continues like neither of us have said anything. "I would have been able to..." He's searching for the right words, swaying one hand in the air in case his fingers could catch them. "Succeed with my... research without your cooperation."

"What research?" I narrow my eyes, my breathing getting faster and sharper in my throat. What the heck is wrong with this guy?

"I believe you already are aware of what I mean," he smiles pleasantly. Which makes it all the more disturbing. And then he pushing himself out of his chair, the leather squeaking as he does, and casually strolls to the filing cabinets behind him. I anxiously tap my fingers against my thighs as my knee bobs up and down. Ashley glances at me, her eyes wide, uncertain, panicking. I reach out to grab her hand, squeezing it. A silent _I love you_.

Then Dr. Hill returns, two files in his hands, the paper folders thick and bulging. As if they are birthday presents, he presents them towards us, his cheeks bulging as he smiles.

Eyeing him like a snake, I cautiously reach forward and take the folder before he can snap at me. I watch Ashley taking my actions as an okay to take her folder too. Then we rest them in our laps, opening the covers at the same time, in sync.

And there they are, neatly in a pile, dated and timed in perfect organisation. The exact photos that are on that site. All the ones with me in it. A collection? For my... file?

Ashley gasps. She stares up in horror, incredulous at Dr. Hill. "It was _you_?!"


	30. Interlude 5 - Mike, Matt, ?

**Mike**

_Prolong the trial_. That's what she'd said. But how the hell is Mike supposed to do that? He isn't some kind of magician; he can't wave a magic wand, end up in Hogwarts, defeat Voldemort and then return to find everything is perfectly right with the world. What did Sam really expect him to do? Flash his bits, causing the judge to faint into a temporary coma of conveniently one day?

Mike's already doomed. Today marks the day he's going to be declared guilt in front of a whole courtroom. And the rest of his life will be confined within four, cold, concrete wall.

Even the eyes of his lawyer are flickering with doubt. The spark has been simmering for a while now, beaten down by the prosecution. Even Mike's lawyer doesn't believe he'll go free.

Mike grits his teeth, his forehead creasing with the strain, as they stand behind the wide, wooden doors leading into the courtroom. In a minute, Mike will be escorted in by a guard and forced into his designated seat.

And his life will be fought over in front of his eyes.

_Prolong the trial. Please._

If that was the only way he could win his own life, he was going to lunge for it with all his might.

* * *

**Matt**

Matt stirs sleeplessly. Empty. His head feels so hollow and _empty_ , like a chunk of it has been taken out and never been replaced.

It's so uncomfortable, this bed. Itchy and irritating; no matter how many sheets of satin the nurses throw over him, it's still so... foreign. Alien.

He doesn't like the bed, doesn't like the room. He especially doesn't the old man next door who won't stop _snoring._

Why hasn't Emily come yet? Is she pissed off at him? - She's pissed off at him, always pissed off at him. Does she know about Jessica? He feels sick; what the hell happened with Jessica?

Those two girls, always fighting over a guy; Mike or Matt.

They've got a thing for M's.

And, despite how much Matt hates to admit it, he has a thing for an Em too.

Why won't she come and visit him? Sleep calls for him. Why won't she...? His eyelids droop and soon he is captured. Silent. Asleep.

* * *

**?**

Distorted. His mind. Her sight.

Flickers of consciousness. Look at him. Reach out, touch him. Pull back. Shatter into nothingness.

Again.

Itching. One eye, always itching. Always irritating.

She hates bullets.

She hates death.

She hates not being seen.

Gather energy, reach forward, touch him. A spark! He jerks, she sizzles. And evaporates.

Gone.

Again.


	31. Sam

I don't think my thighs are ever going to stop aching. It feels like we've been hiking forever, trudging up this mountain but never getting anywhere. Before, it used to feel like the lodge was barely five minutes walk from the cable car station. Now it felt like hours. I had been so eager to get here, so eager to finally find some solution to... everything. And yet, now that I'm here, trepidation is sinking into my stomach, making each of my footsteps heavier than the last.

Do I really want to be back here? Hell no. If anyone had paid me a million dollars last week to face this mountain, I would have cursed them to hell and run a mile to get away from them. In my head, I know that the wendigos aren't coming back. They'd screamed their last in that lodge fire. But they still haunt the place, their chilling screeches hollowing in the wind, plotting. Watching. Waiting.

Mike owes me a heck of a lot for doing this.

Our feet sink into the soggy, squelchy earth – a ground that has soaked up the melted snow like a sponge – leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind us. My nose scrunches, recoiling as I catch another whiff of the passing breeze. It spells constantly of burned ash here. Wolfie skims in between the trees, occasionally circling back to my side before stalking once again. I don't worry too much about him – he seems to know what he's doing. More than Josh, at least.

Josh has been stalling constantly, his feet catching on the earth underneath his heels, his eyes going wild like he's fighting something inside his skull. His head had been jerking to the side, his eyes twitching, listening for something. And he wouldn't continue to climb until he was sure there was nothing after him – that included waiting for me to call Wolfie to heel, assuring Josh he wouldn't attack.

It's been exhausting.

Subconsciously, I rub the red finger marks around my wrist, cradling the skin in my other hand, wincing when I catch a particularly raw spot. He gripped me too tight. Pulled too hard. Too eager.

Josh would never have let go if I hadn't said it hurt.

Ironic. He didn't want to hurt me - and yet that's exactly what he did.

This time. That time, two years ago. In this same place.

_Never to hurt you._

Yeah right, Josh.

The chilly breeze creeps in under my hood, slithering down my back. I clasp my arms around myself, shimmying where I stand, drawing some kind of heat from the patches of visible skin. You'd think I'd come better prepared this time; you know, with a flamethrower, a few bombs in the backpack and, for the hell of it, a whole suit of armour. You know, just in case.

But I'd been in such a hurry, too quick on my feet to worry about anything other than freeing Mike.

That was another thing Mike owed me for. Hypothermia.

Before I start cursing the cold again, Josh ushers me forward, his head cocked unnaturally to the side, huddled into his neck. Narrowing my eyes cautiously, my teeth shattering, I send him a questioning look. What the hell has he seen?

He hisses at me, waving his hand frantically. I roll my eyes, but, considering the fact he was right last night about hearing something behind the window, I follow his orders and trudge my way up to him.

Wordlessly, he stabs his finger in front of him, off into the distance. My breath catches. There it is. The lodge.

But it looks nothing like the last time I saw it. It's a skeleton. Charred, ashy beams protrude out of the ground like spider legs. The building has tumbled down on itself, the floor now black with soot, disintegrated planks collapsed over each other. The fire really tore it apart. There is nothing recognisable about it. It's a smudge of black against the landscape. It churns my stomach, making me feel sick. There is a constant, distasteful smell of charcoal.

"It's so..." I can't find any words. All my words have been tangled in the spidery branches of the trees, yanking them away from me, leaving me empty. Despite all the horrid things that happened up here, from Beth's death, to Hannah succumbing to the wendigo, to almost being killed, I've never really had the chance to mourn this place. It holds more than just nightmarish memories.

Josh hushes me aggressively, pointing harder, further into the remains, underneath the soot and the ash and the blackness. "Someone... there's someone there," he insists through sharp, gritted teeth.

"What?" I snap back, instinctively crouching, my lungs too tight to be able to hold my breath. " _Where?_ " I narrow my eyes as if that could make my eyesight zoom in. Why the hell would anyone else be here? This place has been deserted ever since we burned it down – and Josh got detained for it.

My eyes search through the rubble, alert for any flash of movements or colour within the blackness. Glancing at every inch, every corner. My breath releases in confusion. Nothing. What the hell did Josh see-?

"Boo!" Hands pounce on my shoulders from behind. I yelp, swinging around in a fit of rage, almost smacking Josh in the face.

"What the _hell?!"_ I lunge at him, aiming to punch him in the shoulder, gritting my teeth – both from adrenaline and trying to bite down my laughter. "That was _not_ funny-!"

Behind Josh. A flash of a figure; standing stock still, hands stuffed casually in his pockets.

I scream, stumbling back.

Josh's eyes widen, jerking his head around, cowering instantly.

I glance between him and the figure, back and forth, back and forth, frozen in fear.

Because in front of us, the man who had sneaked up behind us, no sound at all, is wearing Josh's maniac mask.

"Josh," I breathe, tugging at his arm. My chest heaves, despite the rest of my body having been frozen in place. "This isn't another prank, is it?"

He whimpers, like he's facing a nightmare. He shakes his head erratically.

"What the hell do you want?" I snap, sudden aware that, whoever this is, it could be my stalker. Who isn't satisfied with just taking pictures any more. "This isn't _funny!_ " My voice breaks, my legs quake. But I grip my hands into fists, lift my head up high and convince myself that all this is just some stupid joke.

If this is just Chris who has followed us up here and is playing some stupid prank – _again_ – I am going to _kill_ him. I can face Ashley's wrath.

Then the figure smoothly raises his hands to the charred, melting mask, and Josh flinches beside me. I almost trip on my heels, lumbering back. Then the man pulls the mask off, revealing dark, caramel skin and a casual smile.

" _I_ thought it was pretty funny," he comments casually. "Apparently, he did too," he nods in Josh's direction.

Wolfie bursts out of the trees, bounding towards the man. My heart lifts – Wolfie to the rescue! - and then sinks at the sudden thought that he might get hurt.

But all those thoughts are shattered when he enthusiastically wags his tail, barking in delight, almost collapsing into the man's eyes.

The man's face lightens almost instantly, falling into a crouch down to meet the wolf, wrapping his arms around his furry, lump of a body. "Hey, bud," he purrs, scratching Wolfie behind the ears. I stare at them in disbelief. "How you been?"

Then he turns to look at us... at me. "I thought you'd appreciate a little more..." he nudges his head in the Josh's direction. "Reliable help."

Josh sneers at him.

Who the hell is this guy?

And, as if he could read my mind, Wolfie having rolled onto his back, he adds, "I'm Tag."


	32. Jessica

"What is it, Greg?" My voice almost breaks as I finally pluck up the courage to pick up my cellphone and call him back.

"Jessica," Greg breathes on the other end of the line, relief crackling his own voice through the line. "Oh, thank heavens. I thought something had happened to you!"

I'm almost frozen on the spot. What? Is he saying what I _think_ he's saying? My words are stuck in my throat like toffee.

It was only in the comfort in my own apartment that I'd decided I was brave enough to face up to Greg. In a place where I had no audience - something I rarely get to experience. I was sure he'd be raving mad, snapping at me to report to him immediately. And threatening to fire me.

"You were... worried about me?" My voice is smaller, surprised, the tiniest pinpricks of hope gleaming through. Greg has never once given a crap about me. It's only ever been about the money, about how much profit _he_ can get. I never thought he'd ever be concerned about me. Slowly, I can feel myself pull down my shields, the real me peeking through.

Maybe I was too hard on him after all.

"Oh, hell no," Greg scoffs, dropping his facade, any glimpses of worry gone from his voice.

Okay, I was definitely not hard _enough_ on him.

I shake my head in disbelief, instantly yanking my walls back up, shielding my real self behind them. Like usual. Of course. Greg never fails to win the worst manager of the year award.

"Where the hell have you been?" He snaps.

"Didn't you get my message?" I bark back, my fingers stressfully and angrily tangling into my hair. "I was helping a _friend_. In _hospital_."

Greg laughs humourlessly on the other end. "Well, couldn't you have at least got someone to snap some photos? You know, publicity?"

I almost choke. "Is that all you really care about?" I ask incredulously.

"Jess?"

Matt's voice is quiet on the other end of the hallway.

Great timing.

Correction: I have an audience of one.

I jerk my attention back to Greg, only to say blatantly, "I'll call you back later," and hear Greg's incessant _"Jessica, if you dare hang up, I'll-"_. But I drop my hand and cut him off.

I collapse back onto the sofa as my energy drains from me.

"Jess?" Matt pries again, his voice sounding so much _softer_ than last night. But I suppose that was when he was drunk - and before he knocked his memory out of him. He looks almost like a shadow in the dim light of the hallway. But I can still see the outline of his bruise and his shifted shoulders, like he constantly has a weight hunched on them.

"Yes?" I ask weakly, covering my face with a shaking hand.

I'd had to take him here. There had been no other choice. The hospital had discharged him, despite my insistence and constant throwing money at them. But, apparently, there was no need for him to stay anymore overnight. All he'd need were psychiatric sessions to restore whatever memories were obtainable.

Like he'd want to do that with the kind of memories he had.

Turns out I didn't trust him to remember where he put his apartment keys, let alone whether he was reliable enough to stay there on his own. Especially with all those newspaper clippings of Emily's death he'd stashed away.

Imagine him stumbling upon them on his own. I couldn't live with that possibility.

Turns out I care about him after all.

"Emily won't pick up her phone," Matt admits, defeated. Slowly, he steps towards me, into the living room. He cradles his cellphone in his hand, constantly glancing down at it. The glow from it illuminates the damage on his face. "She's going to kill me when she knows I'm here."

I let out an exasperated - nevertheless weak - sigh. "Emily isn't ever going to call you. _Okay_?"

Matt's face crumbles in hurt and confusion. Just as the light bulb above my head flickers.

I snap my head up. A shiver slithers over my shoulders. My hairs prickle along my arms.

"What the hell?" I whisper. That's never happened before. I narrow my eyes cautiously in the direction of it, an inky blackness spreading underneath the glass of the bulb. I stretch myself up to inspect the lamp that it's screwed into when it flickers again, this time, the main light bulb in the room joining in.

Something doesn't feel right. My stomach curdles, my whole body suddenly feeling freezing. My heart is pumping in my chest, my teeth chattering. My left eye is itchy, aching. I reach up. To scratch it-

A huge bang crashes against the wall behind my head.

My body vaults to my feet. I spin around. My heart is pounding. "Matt?" My voice cracks, glancing in his direction in panic. As if I could accuse him of doing any of this. He's frozen on the spot, his eyes bulging, staring straight at the spot where the bang came from. He's a statue, unblinking, his bicep twitching from strain. His bruise looks particularly menacing under this harsh light, the bloody red a contrast against his dark skin.

Then his jaw goes slack like someone has unhooked it. And he opens his mouth to speak.

But it isn't his voice that comes out.

It's Emily's.

"Stay away from my man, you whore."

As soon as the words have escaped his lips, his joints unravel and he collapses into a heap on the floor. And the room settles into a calm hum.

The exact opposite of my heart.


	33. Chris

"Let me explain," Dr. Hill adds curtly, a sanitary smile adopted on his features.

My blood is hot – boiling over the heat burning from my twisted stomach – my muscles twitching underneath my taut skin. I try and logically talk myself out of any sudden act of anger. It would only result in me getting arrested for assault. _Hear him out,_ I insist.

Ashley looks the opposite. Her back is pressed up against the spine of her chair, as if she were trying to melt into it; and disappear. Her eyes are wide and terrified, her body instinctively putting as much distance between her and our stalker as possible. If I hadn't been holding onto her hand, I'm sure she would have leapt to her feet and sprinted across the room by now.

"I never intended for you to find out about the photographs," Dr. Hill looks regretful, glancing down at his calm, clasped hands. It looks like he's been preparing for this for a long time – like he's done this before. "It was unfortunate how you found out." He nods in our direction and I scowl back at him, tasting bitter venom in my mouth. It's like onions, stinging my eyes.

" _Right_ ," I reply, bitter, through my words shake and I'm unsure in my seat.

"But," he eyes me daringly, adjusting himself in his seat, leaning against the desk with his forearms. "You have to understand why I-"

"Get to the point," Ashley mutters under her breath. I glance at her in surprise. Her voice is strong, but it quavers and I can see anxiety shivering behind her eyes. Her whole body is quaking. She wants to get out of here as soon as possible.

Dr. Hill nods appreciatively in her direction. I want to smack him across the face – but, instead, I grip my fingers around the cushioned arm of my chair to stop myself. In fear of my hand sinking into his waxy skin. In fear of him crumbling apart at my touch, revealing a skeleton held together by cobwebs and spiders. Because that's exactly what he looks like right now. _Death_. "Why, yes," he smiles politely, his skin stretching unnaturally across his cheeks. "Of course."

And then the leather of his chair creaks as he pushes himself up from it.

"As I'm sure you know," he begins as he proceeds to pace the room, from the wall to the window and back, his hands clasped behind him. "Your friend _Josh_ was my patient."

I stare at him, my eyes widening in disbelief. So _this_ was who Josh's psychiatrist was? He never liked to talk about it, always avoiding the subject. We generally resorted to alcohol anyway. I didn't like to get involved – not with anything that would make either of us uncomfortable. Sometimes, I wish I had. Maybe that could have stopped all this...

Ashley grips my hand beside me, as if she knows, as if she can see where my mind is regressing to. I snap out of it, my jaw tightening.

If this was who was treating him...

No _wonder_ Josh went insane.

"Such a shame what happened to him," Dr. Hill mutters nonchalantly.

I almost want to growl at him. But more so, I want to growl at myself. Guilt stabs at my stomach, twisting and wrenching it apart. My chest feels compressed, like I can't breathe, like I'm gasping for air. The more I look at Dr. Hill, more I see of myself – of what I didn't do for Josh. Of pulling the lever towards him, of watching him cry out in desperation, spitting out that he thought we were friends. Of seeing agony rip him apart.

Even if it hadn't been real, it was real in my head. Even if pulling the lever didn't really kill him, I still pulled it. I still didn't help him. I still didn't stop this from ever happening.

 _You couldn't have known._ Ashley's words ring in my head, calming, relaxing. She used to say them over and over, when I'd finally spilled out these thoughts to her. _You saved_ my _life, Chris. That's something._ My joints and muscles begin to uncoil and I collapse back against the chair, finally able to breathe. Whatever was pressing against my chest is lifted. Just a little.

Dr. Hill steadies his feet where he stands and smiles at us as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking. Of what Ashley's thinking. I glance over at her. Her eyes are glassy, frozen, and she's scattered the photographs across the floor. She couldn't bare to touch them anymore.

But I can see anxiety and – even more so – anger harbouring under the surface of her skin. She looks like a volcano, ready to erupt.

"His parents noticed," Dr. Hill says knowingly, turning his attention to me. I twist my neck to look at him, a mixture of hatred, panic and confusion narrowing my eyes. It is only her words in my head keeping me calm. Keeping me within my seat, "That the treatment wasn't working. Josh wasn't... taking his medication. So they threatened me." He shrugs his shoulders as if what he was saying the most natural thing in the world. "Said they'd out me to the world, make me lose my job and my reputation. So," he steps towards me again, placing his palms flat against the desk. "I had to come up with a back up."

"What back up?" I rumble, my throat closed and wheezing. Panic is very slowly settling into my skin, building and building. Each of this man's words lays another layer.

"Research," he explains in one word, as if it were obvious, using his hands to indicate the pictures. He seems quite amused that half of them have been flung across the floor. "I knew what Josh had planned and so I devised a plan."

"You couldn't stop him?" Ashley asks incredulously under her breath, the volcano bubbling and frothing over.

Dr. Hill shakes his head with another one of those infuriating, polite smiles on his waxy skin. "Not legally, unfortunately."

"When were you ever all for legality?" I mutter, picking up the file on my knees, photos in hand, and throwing them across the floor to joining Ashley's. A feeling of satisfaction runs through me. I suddenly just want to lug everything on his desk across the floor just to see his reaction. In the corner of my eye, I see a hint of a smile tugs at Ashley's lips. Pride. Relief. Teamwork.

"You'd be surprised," Dr. Hill smirks before adjusting himself back to pacing the room. "You see, Christopher. Ashley. I knew everything that Josh had planned. And where it would be. And when. So I merely... organised for you to be _monitored_ from the moment you stepped off that mountain. Of course I had never imagined you'd face far more _traumatic_ events than a mere prank."

I shake my head in disbelief. If only he knew.

"Oh, I do know, Chris."

I blink, freezing in my spot. How the _hell_ could he tell?

"After all, I have been watching you. Your tales of creatures is very entertaining."

Ashley snaps up in her seat, her hand slipping away from mine in the sharp movement. "You know _nothing_!" She shouts, her voice breaking, her eyebrows creasing, her mouth set in pain.

Dr. Hill smiles gently towards her – but even that looks sick. "I _am_ sorry for what you have experienced, Ashley," he nods and she shrinks back and I just want to reach out and shake whatever the hell he's going to say out of him. "But I saw an opportunity that I couldn't resist. To research the reactions and coping mechanisms of victims of such tragic events in a natural environment. I'm sure that when it is published, it will sell millions. What with your fame rising with the court case and-"

"So, we're just your _lab rats_?" Ashley cries, her words breaking and crackling as she practically quakes where she sits. I can't tell anymore if it's with anger or fear.

"Such a _harsh_ term, Miss Ashley," his lips twist upwards. "I'd call it... volunteers."

And then he lifts up the contracts that we signed, his finger pointing to one line; _I am aware that Dr. Hill will be in need of my agreement to concede details of my private life to allow him to do his work._

"I believe you have already agreed to this."


	34. Sam

I'm convinced it is a skull being crushed underneath my foot. A brittle crack hangs in the space between charred beams and pillars. Up close they look like they've been half chewed, like fiery teeth have chawed into them, sinking an inky blackness into the wood grain like cobwebs. It stinks of ash and smoke here, as if the smell itself has been ingrained into the earth itself, every footsteps we take puffing out another whiff.

I flinch at every step I take across the black burnt, littered floor, hearing another crack with every one, like I'm snapping bones. Bile churns up from my stomach, rushing up my throat, a bitter, sour taste in my mouth.

Hannah is under here somewhere. At least... the remains of whatever she'd become.

I push down the acidic after-taste of my measly breakfast - I'd been too in a rush to think about consuming anything other than a roughly buttered slice of toast. I can't get distracted by what horrific things happened to my best friend, and how every crunch I hear could be the sound of her brittle skull cracking.

"This way," Tag picks his way effortlessly through the burnt lodge remains. I eye him suspiciously. He's done this before.

Josh huffs beside me and, I'm sure if I look, he'll be standing hunched over, with arms crossed tightly over his chest. Like a reluctant, disapproving child.

I don't know if I can trust his judgement. I as hell don't know if I can trust mine.

The only clear judgement lined up in front of me is Wolfie's. And I can't tell if he's just betrayed me or not. But he's all I can really rely on right now.

Cautiously, I take steps forward, following Tag's path. A hand jerks out behind me, grabbing me by the elbow and almost yanking me back.

"Don't listen," Josh warns, eyes narrowing, lower eyelid twitching. I stare at him, a mixture of shock, confusion and doubt churning across my face. I can feel it moving like a spider across my skin.

_No._

_I'm sorry._

I breathe, shaking my head and pushing his hand off my arm reluctantly. He drops his hand so easily, like he wasn't putting any strength into it at all. His face drops with shame.

"I have to," I whisper, even though _I_ don't even know if that's true. But if Mike's release is on the line and I have the choice to trust Josh - who could snap and twist without a moment's warning - or a complete stranger who seems to know these ruins more than I knew the lodge when it was still standing, I know who I _have_ to choose. Even if I don't want to. The guy's right; Josh isn't reliable. And it feels like I'm betraying him even thinking that, like, with him hovering beside me, he can tap into my skull and hear every single word I'm thinking.

And, by the way he cocks his head and his eyes bulge, I'm almost convinced he can.

I snap my head away, moving faster across the rubble. My body programmed into a natural flight instinct - away from Josh, away from his reactions, as if my shame will just melt away like plastic in fire.

But, no matter what I do, the stench will still be there. Stinking up the air, like the ash and the smoke and the burns.

"Who are you?" I finally speak, my words bouncing against Tag's back who has already found his way to the back wall. Wolfie has been hovering around his legs like the man is someone he thought he'd lost - and now that he's found him, Wolfie isn't taking any chances.

Mike is gonna have a hard time convincing him to come back now.

"That doesn't concern you," Tag mutters as he crouches down next to the wall, his hands lugging away rubble.

"Actually," I take a confident step closer to him, irked that he doesn't even appear to be listening, his back to me. Too bothered by whatever the hell he's doing. "I think you'll find it _does_. If you want us to trust you-!"

My words snap off when they simply rolls over the man's toned shoulders like they are mere puffs of harmless smoke. I almost want to growl.

As if I haven't said anything at all, so-called Tag - what's the likelihood that that isn't even his real name - scoops away ash and litter from that infuriating space next to the wall. He claps Wolfie on the back of the neck when Wolfie joins in, digging his front paws into the ash and soot, kicking it back behind him.

Josh - who has reluctantly regained his position next to me - cringes as a smudge of that soot is kicked into his face. I wouldn't be surprised if Wolfie did it on purpose. Despite myself, I bite my lip in a grin, cutting off a giggle, very tempted to poke him in the shoulder as a joke. But half of me tugs at my memory, worried that he feels betrayed about my decision.

Josh glares at me, his paw of a hand smearing the soot down his cheek in an attempt to wipe it away. "Not. Funny," he almost pouts. And just as I catch a crack of a smile, a grating sound screeches in my ear. I flinch, the noise almost physically paining me, jerking my head in its direction. Tag has lugged out a grate in the wall, the metal grinding against the brick uncomfortably. Like nails against a chalkboard.

I shiver, the sound physically irking me, still echoing inside my ear canals. The metal crate drops with a clatter, and then Tag his pushing himself to his feet, brushing off soot from his already pretty tattered jeans.

"Come on then," he ushers.

I eye the small space that the grate has left, rolling on my heels. I can feel Josh twitching beside me, unable to stay still, his knees rolling back and forth. Fingers tapping up his arms like insects.

Tag raises his eyebrows mockingly. "What? You want to take the stairs?" My eyes skin over towards the stairs that lead to the lower level - at least where they used to be. Now they're a crumbling mess, a gaping hole like a black, fanged mouth separating the floor from the lower level. "The door's a pretty good option too." As if he's ordering them to, my eyes are pulled towards the only structure that resembles a door anymore. And even saying that is pushing it. The doorway is crushed by a boulder sized lugging of rubble and skeletons of furniture. I cringe.

"Fine," I mutter, I sigh, finally stepping forward, approaching him. _Crunch, crunch, crunch._

Wolfie looks up at me with those damned, big eyes that beg for me to trust this guy. Guilt twists in my stomach. I send the wolf an apologetic look,

_Sorry. Not yet._

Then I reluctantly crouch and squeeze myself through the hole in the wall, coughing as I suck in ashy dust.

And as I tumble on to the surprisingly intact floor of the room on the other side, I hear Tag's muttering voice ordering Josh, "You next, big guy," just as Wolfie scrambles effortlessly after me and Josh responds with a brusque huff.


	35. Jessica

Okay. Okay, I am _officially_ moving.

I don't care about how desirable this apartment is, I don't care about how much money I spent on the contents. I am _not_ letting whatever happened to Matt get _any_ closer to me.

"Jess," Matt looks frazzled, hissing as he rubs his forehead where he'd hit it on the floorboards. "What are you doing?"

"Leaving," I state bluntly, already having grabbed a duffel bag and stuffing it with as many clothes and personal items as I can grab a hold of.

From what I catch of Matt's face as I hurry past him, bewilderment is twitching his features, his bruise shifting as he scrunches up his eyes. "What?" he asks sharply, that single word encapsulating his disorientation and confusion into a tight, four letters. It looks like, for a moment, that his skull is too heavy for the rest of his body, like he's going to topple over himself.

I snap. My body spins around to face him. "Whatever _joke_ this is!" I spit, panic shooting up my spine into my skull, my knuckles white from gripping the duffel bag's hand in my hand, my nails almost bursting my skin. "It's not _funny_!"

But just as I push past him, his body still rooted between the living room and the hallway, to hurry into the bedroom, Matt reaches out to clasp my wrist.

I freeze, glancing in shock at his hand on my skin – almost like he's betraying me by even trying to stop me – but it isn't his grip that stops me. Last night, I'm sure that if he had tried to grab me, even slurringly drunk, his fingers would have bit into my skin, cutting off circulation. The hand that he holds me now is flutteringly soft, afraid to even hurt me. It is like a bird, wing broken, feathers shivering against my skin.

So different. He's so different.

And all it took was to forget that Emily was dead.

"Tell me," he mutters, his voice husky. Matt's eyes are black as mine travel up his arm to his face. His features are sharp, but there's a softness about them. An understanding, a pleading. His anger has dissipated with his memories.

An odd calmness swells over me, my fingers relaxing and uncoiling, dropping the half full duffel bag with a thump. My heart stops rattling inside my ribs, settling there, like amongst pillows.

For the first time, I really see Matt. His fungus of a bruise can't cover the _kindness_ in his eyes, the compassion seeped into his dark skin, the genuine _worry_ in the black pools of his eyes. And, for once, I don't want to break that.

"Thank you," I whisper, gently resting my hand, despite myself, against the one he holds against my wrist. His skin is warm. It travels down from my fingertips, through my arm, down into my torso, fluttering in my stomach. His eyebrows fold in bewilderment, like he feels it too. For a moment, I think I can see him hold his breath, swallowing, stiffening.

He yanks his hand back. Like an electric shock. His gaze jerks away, a hand scratching at the back of his neck just to do something. And I harden in response, stepping back. Emily. Of course, always Emily. Whether she's dead or alive, she's messing with both of our minds.

Matt thinks he's betraying his girlfriend by being here with me, by touching me, by being even ten feet away from me. And the sound of Emily's voice out of his mouth that was threatening me to stay _away_ from him ricochets inside my skull like a tennis ball, a sharp tinny shrill in my ears.

As soon as Matt had woken up after collapsing on the floor, he didn't remember any of what had happened. He hadn't even been aware that Emily's voice had been manipulating his.

Yet even I don't know if I believe that even _happened_. If it really was Emily possessing him. It sounds ridiculous, like some stupid horror film. I keep hearing her voice, haunting me. Yet the energy in the apartment has lifted, like a weight has been pulled away. It is eerily quiet. Right now, if I'd been on a stage for one of my gigs, I'd be stating that these kind of things are just our nightmares and fears manifesting themselves. And we have to fight them to move forward.

But I never believed rubbish like that. It doesn't work. No matter how many times I tell myself something like that, those things were still _real_. They almost _killed_ me.

And someone like _Greg_ will never believe it.

It is only people like Matt who will. The same people who went through it with me.

The people I have abandoned.

Guilt hits me in the stomach. I stumble back, regret creasing my forehead, my eyes falling, my hand covering my face. They did everything for me. Mike ran after me, throwing all preconceptions out of the window. And he came to my rescue.

And he helped me afterwards, paying for rehab, insisting on my recovery.

And what had I done?

Turned my back on him. On them.

I shake my head, blonde strands of hair falling over my eyes. I don't even care anymore. I'm a mess, okay? This is how I am. And I hate pretending I'm not. I hate being shot at from all angles, bashed against, because people think I can take it. Because they think I have it _all together_. Because I had _no one else_ who _knew_ what it was like.

My eyes glance up through blonde strands of hair at Matt who is clutching his head, frustration tugging at his features. He's fighting with himself and his memories.

He doesn't need to know. He doesn't need to learn that he is the reason I'm still alive. At least I was able to say it, at least once. When it most mattered, when I really meant it; _thank you_.

My cellphone buzzes in my pocket. With an energy-less sigh, tired of fighting my own fight, I pull it out of my pocket. _Greg_.

I don't even have to say anything as I bring the phone up to my pocket. "Okay," Greg argues, laying out his points for me. "There's a talk show that want you on. I won't fire you if you come to the studio now. They want to discuss this freaking case."

I shrug, accepting setting in. Better late than never.


	36. Interlude 6 - Emily, Matt, Josh

**Emily**

So empty. So dark. Blackness everywhere.

Lonely. No energy. Drained.

Sore. Everywhere.

There is nothing here. Nothing but her.

The darkness tugs at her skin, peeling, ripping. She screams but her throat is dry. Empty.

Everything is empty.

And then it starts again. Like a chanting mob. The last minutes of her life. Like a slide-show, flickering images all around her. Coming closer, swallowing her. The inky black mouth of a gun. The inky black of his heart.

The yells of "Kill her" like a siren in her head. Trapped. Forever trapped. Over and over again.

_Bang!_

The bullet. It snaps out of the gun's socket. Ripping through the air towards her.

And there's nothing there to stop it. There never is.

The bullet explodes through her eye.

Then nothing.

Silence.

Empty.

Again.

* * *

**Matt**

His hand shakes. The more he looks at it, the more it trembles.

Jessica hasn't stopped moving. She was always that way. At least he thinks she was – he doesn't even know if he can remember _that_ anymore.

Matt is the opposite. The couch has found a home in him, moulding to his body shape as he sits collapsed on it. Frozen. Unmoving. There was something not right about this – about any of this. His brain was shattered, like someone had thrown the jigsaw back in the box and shaken it until all the pieces were unhooked. He couldn't put them back together.

And he had touched her. He had taken her wrist in his and held it there. As if it could have been her hand that would be able to reach inside his brain and put the jigsaw back together – this time with some super glue to keep them all together.

 _What's happening?_ That's what he had wanted to ask her. _What's going on?_ She knew something. Something important, something that he needed. And yet she wasn't telling him.

Why?

Jessica paces through the room, calming herself as she straightens out the remainder of the creases on her suit jacket. He's afraid that if she comes any closer, he'll want to touch her again. And not just to make her stop.

"Okay," she breathes, nodding to herself and then to him. "I'm leaving."

She picks up her handbag, the key rings clinking against each other. "Don't leave this apartment," she warns him, taking a deep breath in. She's calming her nerves. He can at least tell _that_. She moves towards the door, bending down to drop something on the coffee table. "And don't you dare," she eyes him challengingly, though her gaze flickers with quenched anxiety. "Switch on the TV. Alright?"

Mike nods. It's the only response he can give through his stiff, perturbed mind.

And then the front door closes with a soft thud.

The TV light isn't even on. She's pulled out the wires at the back; hidden them elsewhere. Of course. He can't help but smile, the first real movement for minutes. She doesn't trust him.

And then his eyes catch a metallic glint from the coffee table. Her spare keys. Placed perfectly in eyesight, in arms reach.

Well. Obviously... she trusts him enough.

* * *

**Josh**

Josh doesn't trust him. He keeps to the back of the group to keep his eyes trained on the man's spine, every so often sniffing in defiance. Which always leads to him coughing at the stench of ash.

Ugh. He shakes it off. Like it's travelling its smoky fingers across his shoulders.

He doesn't understand why he's here.

The videos. She said something about the videos.

He has to remember this. Just remember this, Josh. She needs you to remember this.

He squeezes his eyes shut, his feet balancing on rubble. The videos. What about the videos? _Flick through your memories, Josh. Flick, flick, flick._ Like skimming through photographs.

No. Not that one.

No. No no no.

"Josh?" Sam's voice.

He snaps his eyes open.

Stupid Josh. Should have kept his eyes on that guy's back.

He huffs, lugging up to the trio, his eyes narrowing at the wolf.

 _'You think you got a chance with her, buddy?'_ Josh snorts.

The wolf smugly sticks his nose up in the air just as Sam reaches down to pet him, rubbing him affectionately on the side.

Josh crosses his arms, irritated. _'Yeah, well... you're a dog.'_

Josh has decided. He doesn't trust either of them.


	37. Chris

"I'm such an idiot," Ashley whimpers as she finally finds the lobby a safe enough place to spill out her words. Yet... is anywhere safe enough anymore? She's rushing around, pacing and frantic, tugging her fingers through her hair as if to pull out all the lies and nightmares that have been clinging onto her scalp, trying to get into her brain. "I ruined everything! It's my fault! I'm so _stupid_!"

"Hey," I catch her by the forearms, spinning her around to face me. A purposeful, real expression sets itself in my eyes. The door to Dr. Hill's office clicks shut neatly. Of _course_. "Listen to me. No one could have known. That slimy asshole would twist any sentence."

I had practically told him as much.

Ashley had almost been in hysterics as I defiantly escorted her from the room, purposefully sending Dr. Hill a glare; "See you in court."

He'd smiled smugly back and it had unnerved me. No words could ever faze him. It was almost like he already knew everything that I was going to say. Every movement I was ever going to make. He'd taken a spile and tapped into my skull.

"Oh, Christopher?" He'd piped up, almost as an after thought. Timed perfectly just as I'd turned my head towards the door. What a surprise.

"What?" I'd snapped bitterly, my arm holding the door open as Ashley cowered underneath it. I had seen the need for her to escape the room, tugging at me with her eyes. But she wasn't prepared to leave without me.

"I wonder... when are you going to ask her?" He'd smiled knowingly, his eyes dropping to the ground at my feet. "It's been months, hasn't it?"

Thump. What was he on about? Thump. My heart had been heavy in my chest, uneasiness setting over it like a sheet of ice. I couldn't trust this guy's words anymore.

I don't think I ever trusted him.

And yet my gaze still fell to the same spot on the floor as his. Among the scattered photographs strewn across the floor is one almost perfectly placed to the front of my foot. My breath had hitched. There, on the photograph, was the secret I'd been storing for months, never plucking up the courage to actually go through with it. And there it was, as clear as day, plastered for the whole world to see. For Ashley to see.

A simple photograph; yet one of me walking into a jewellers. Asking for a ring. Buying one.

Putting my whole life on the line for one question.

I'd cursed under my breath, panic prickling under my skin, eyes growing wild.

Ashley had glanced at me, her eyes puffy and red. Confused. "What?" Her voice had shook.

Instinctively, I'd shoved my foot over the photograph. So she couldn't see. "Nothing," I'd wheezed, not even attempting a smile. I couldn't even meet her gaze.

She couldn't find out like this.

She'd eyed me carefully, studying my shifting movements, but, through her distraught state, couldn't find the mental strength to question me.

She barely had enough energy to limp out of the room.

Yet I had just about enough to send a sharp, meaningful glare in Dr. Hill's direction, accompanied by warning, raised eyebrows. He'd merely shrugged proudly, giving himself some kind of credit for whatever he'd just done.

And now my heart was still thumping. My eyes twitch anxiously in Ashley's direction, just in case she'd seen. Just in case I can catch a flinch of a clue to tell me that she had.

I let out a breath of relief. She's too concerned about other things. She isn't in her right mind. I know that if she was, she'd be demanding me to tell her what was in that photograph. Probably concocting some ridiculous imaginations that I was cheating on her.

That is probably the least most likely thing to happen. Even less likely than being killed by a vending machine.

"Ashley," I say suddenly, my mind snapping to attention. The receptionist beside us looks positively bored, entirely ignoring our existence. I walk forward, like walking will help me think better. "We need to call Sam."

"What?" Ashley asks suddenly, shocked out of her guilt-filled state.

"She knew something," I spin around to face her, my mind suddenly going into overdrive. "About the photographs. I don't know-"

Suddenly I'm yanking my cellphone out of my pocket and stabbing the on button.

"Excuse me," the receptionist suddenly seems to come to life. "No cell phones in the hospital."

"This isn't even the emergency ward," I mutter, shrugging her off, my eyes glued to my phone screen. _Loading... loading... loading..._ I swear that this phone takes longer to switch on every time I do it. Impatience drives my fingers to tap against the side of my leg. I can feel Ashley pacing the floor beside me, anxiety fuelling her, her mind ticking away. The receptionists scoffs behind me and I cringe, feeling a tinge of guilt for flaring up at her. Stiffly, I send her an apologetic smile and a look that says _I'll buy you a new... pen?_

She sticks her nose up as if she can hear my thoughts. I flinch. Well, _I_ thought she needed one. She was on the fast road to breaking her current one with how many times she'd clicked it.

My phone lights up, illuminating the home screen. I suck in air, clicking myself into action, once again distracted from the impatience receptionist.

"Chris?" I hear Ashley's quiet voice beside me.

"What a minute," I mutter, skimming through my contacts. _Sam, Sam. Where are you?_

"Chris," Ashley's voice is more urgent now, her hand tugging on my elbow. I can feel her anguish like an energy force beside me, pulling at my clothes, my skin, anything to get my attention.

"Hang on," I say as patiently as I can, breathing through my nose. _There she is. Sam._ I quickly stab the call button, raising the phone to my just as Ashley smacks me across the face, the phone almost flying out of my hand.

"Wha-!" I splutter and choke, almost stumbling back from the sudden shock. I can hear the receptionists smug hum as if she'd been waiting for Ashley to do that. "What the hell was _that_ about?"

Ashley crosses her arms across her chest, her eyes shivering but unwavering from their target. "There," she nods, a tiny bit of pride breaking through her frantic worry. " _That_ got your attention."

"Wha-" My throat almost chokes and I'm convinced that my jaw has dislocated by now from how long it's been hanging open. Instinctively, my hand reaches up to scratch the back of my neck. "I- I think I would have preferred if it was a _kiss_?"

Ashley blinks at me, unmoved by my joke. Instead her eyes roll over my shoulders to behind me and says, as calmly as her voice can be; "I was trying to say," she hisses. "We have _company_."

And there, just as I hear the distance, automated sound of _This person's phone is switched off or is out of range of signal_ , I spin around to see a figure standing awkwardly in the doorway, an ugly bruise spreading up the side of his face.


	38. Sam

The freezing cold still finds me in the basement. It sinks its fangs into my skin, my body convulsing and shuddering in reaction. I hadn't exactly expected the basement to go completely unscathed. But a little bit more roofing would have been appreciated. The fire had chawed off chunks of the flooring of the upper room, leaving gaping holes above our heads, the remains of beaming criss-crossing over them like little bridges. Or tightrope wires.

Uneasiness crawls up my skin, having a battle against the cold wind that has already claimed my body. I can almost hear the metallic chunk of sword against sword, fighting over which would make me feel worse. In a minute, a little flag will be stabbed into my shoulder, declaring victory for whichever side wins. Right now, I'm really hoping for an invasion of warmth. Or, you know, anything _at all_ pleasant.

Because that's something this place seriously lacks.

The floorboards had creaked violently underneath my feet, threatening to give way, as I'd dipped my feet into one of the holes. "Whoa, hold on, Nelly," Tag had muttered, grabbing me around the waist before I'd fallen forward, down into the basement. I'd instinctively jerked away from him - thankfully, away from the hole too - sending Tag a warning glare to keep his distance.

Tag had shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, but one of his hands was rubbing his arm - I think Josh might have hit him. Almost amused, I'd smirked. At least Josh was on my side.

We'd eventually climbed down one of the more stable holes, jumping down into the basement with a thud. And now here we are, pushing through rubble in a seemingly aimless fashion through the tunnels of the basement.

It stinks of rotting blood. Whatever remnants of pigs bodies were left down here is making me gag. I cover my mouth with a hand in an attempt to shove it back down my throat.

"This is disgusting," I cringe, feeling Josh's presence behind me. He's muttering numbers. Like directions. Coordinates. His breath is almost reaching the back of my neck.

"This way," Tag shines his torch through some crumbling rubble into a narrow corridor. Wolfie has claimed his spot at Tag's ankles, bravely venturing into the corridor, ash from crumbling concrete coating his grey fur.

I've been keeping my distance, no matter how much Wolfie trusts this guy. _I'm_ not getting anywhere near him if I can help it.

"Oka-" I inhale through my teeth, dragging the words out. But Josh grabs my arm before I can step forwards.

"No," he snaps.

"What?" I twist my neck to look over my shoulder at him, his features distorted in the dim light. He's not looking at me though. His eyes are set ahead of him, his eyebrows drawn into frown lines.

"No. No, no, no," he mutters over and over again, each _no_ gaining in volume and confidence. "It's this way." And he pushes past me, striding towards a corridor in the exact opposite of Tag's proposition. "It's this way," he peers in, nodding as if he can see a clue buried in the walls. He twists his head in my direction, his eyes the strongest and most steady I've seen them since... well, for a long time. "Come on, Sammy."

Tag rolls his eyes. "Are you seriously going to trust a guy like that?" He scoffs, though he somehow manages to do it in his infuriatingly casual, nonchalant way.

I set my jaw. "You know what?" I bark, taking a step of defiance forward. I snap my gaze to Tag's to make a point. But my foot almost trips over a stray chunk of concrete. I catch myself just before I can lose my balance. _Oh, great job, Sam. Way to make yourself look intimidating._

But I shake it off and readjust the hard stare in my eyes. "I'd rather trust him over you. And," I add as an after thought, "I'd trust you not to insult one of my _friends._ " And I pace forward, hooking my arm into Josh's - who looks surprised at my sudden action. Though a smug smile spreads over his whole face - and tugging him towards his chosen destination. "Come on, Josh," I say, loud enough so that Tag can hear me. I try and avoid the pleading look in Wolfie's big, black eyes because I know even a glimpse of it will tug at my heart strings.

And I grit my teeth, preparing for the consequences of my actions, as I guide us into the dark, swallowing corridor littered with rubble.

_Well done, Sam. Way to go and leave the guy with the torch behind._

Not that that has ever deterred me.

* * *

"This way?" I breathe, barely able to see my breath in front of my nose.

Josh _humphs_ beside me, shifting his shoulders up and down.

"You know," I'm growing impatient, feeling like we've been going around and around in circles in this place. When Josh had been so adamant this had been the way, his eyes had been so set on confidence. It had deluded me into trusting him. Now he's reverted back to his liquid demeanour, swaying back and forth. "I would appreciate a little _help_ here. If I'd known you'd be so... _iffy_ I would have-"

"Shh," Josh cuts me off. I sense him cocking his head in the direction that we've just come.

I hold my breath. Train my ears to hear what he does. What? What the hell is it?

But I know enough now to trust his judgement. He's been right twice so far.

"What is it?" I breathe.

And then I hear it. A whimper.

A dog.

_A wolf._

In seconds, I'm tearing back down the corridor. If the rubble trips me up, I don't even care anymore. What has that guy done to Wolfie? I should _never_ have trusted him with that guy. _Stupid Sam! Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Mike is going to _kill_ me.

 _I'm_ going to kill me.

"Wolfie!" I'm shouting down the corridor, the dim light from the other end carving out the shape of a doorway.

Josh's footsteps are uneven behind me. But I can still hear them. Oddly, they calm me, just a little. They assure me I'm not alone.

My heart is thumping, squeezing up to my throat.

If that guy has done _anything_ to Wolfie, I'm going to rip into him!

"Wolfie!" My voice is raspy, feeling tears sting my eyes as my limbs burn from running. All I can see in my mind is Wolfie lying on the floor with his side gashed into, blood pouring over the floor. I let out a frustrated cry, choking on tears. I crash through the corridor into the direction that Tag and Wolfie had gone.

Another painful whimper, closer this time.

And then I'm shooting into a room. And almost stumble over Wolfie's lump of a body.

A breath of relief rips from my throat. He looks up at me with those big, black eyes of his. Completely unscathed.

"Thank heavens," I breathe, collapsing to my feet and wrapping my arms tightly around the animal. He whimpers next to me, as if he's glad for the company. I'm suddenly overwhelmed with my love for this animal. _I'm sorry, Wolfie. I shouldn't have left you behind. I should have trusted you._

"Sammy," I hear Josh's hoarse voice behind me break my sobs. "Look."

I lift my head. The room is empty. Tag, wherever the hell the asshole is, isn't here. Wolfie is staring into space, like he's waiting for Tag to appear in that spot again.

But it's not completely empty. There, on the wall, above a desk, is the smearing of blood.

I choke, almost gagging. This was where Emily was shot.


	39. Jessica

"Five minutes," the attendant sticks his head around the door, a headpiece fitted behind his ears and his hand held up to show five fingers. As if I hadn't heard him the first time.

I nod, stretching a smile that says ' _I'm definitely_ not _nervous'_ over my lips, one that is designed _not_ to look as uncomfortable as I feel.

He grins widely - like he's not used to even remotely pleasant guests in his dressing rooms - and his disembodied head disappears again, the door closing with a soft click.

"Okay, Jess," I mutter to myself, sitting in front of the mirror, nervously fluffing up my hair again - for about the fifth time since I got here. "You are not nervous. You are going to go out there and rock it." It feels lonely in the dressing room. Empty. Hollow. They've stretched a mirror to cover the whole of one wall – a trick to apparently make the room feel bigger. But that only proceeds to make me feel smaller. Tinier. Insignificant.

My mind hasn't left my apartment. It's still swimming there, caught in between tangled nets. Within names. Sam. Chris, Ashley. Matt.

 _Mike_.

Flashes of Mike screaming after me within the darkness. Of his hand reaching for me as my chest had heaved with pain, lying on that elevator grated floor. Of my voice scraping against my throat simply saying his name. I had wanted to feel his hand against my cold, tear stained cheek so much. Right then. Just to know he was real.

My body aches as if I can still feel the red, hot lashes across my chest. I choke, tears catching in my eyelashes before breaking through and dribbling down my skin, smearing my make up.

In the mirror, I watch my hand hover over the scars over my chest, as if I'm not even registering that I'm doing it myself. For a second, the mirror flashes back to the me back then. Plaits and underwear and _scars_. Dirt smeared over my skin. Vulnerability shivering in my watery eyes.

And then there was Matt. The luck I'd run into those hell-filled mines. My guiding light.

If it hadn't been for him, I'd be lying on that cold, rock floor, a jumble of dead bones and rotting skin.

When did I forget about them? When did I shove them away? I don't think I can even pinpoint a specific date anymore. It had just _happened_ _._ My body had convulsed, instantly activating my self-preservation button. And my radar had bleeped violently over their heads, warning me that they were a threat. That they would make me crumble, make me a mess. I hadn't _wanted_ to be a mess. And yet it was them all along. They were the ones who would help me survive. Not tear me down.

It has been other people I've been surrounding myself with that have been tearing me down.

"Knock knock!"

Like _him_.

The secure expression I've been working on for the last half an hour – held together by lip-gloss - deteriorates in seconds.

"What is it, Greg?" I groan, forcing my voice to sound irritated. Despite my tangled stomach, my guilt claiming my skin. I can't lose my guard in front of Greg. He's like a predator that waits for its prey to lower its guard. And then he pounces. Tearing me up into pieces.

Greg pushes the door open and sticks his head around it. "I've come to see my favourite, money winner!" He grins - although it looks more like a grimace on his face – and swiftly invites himself into the room.

"Cut the crap, Greg," I mutter, swivelling around in my chair to face him, narrowing my eyes at him. My heart is thumping in my chest. I can't remember the last time I looked Greg in the eye. Probably when he'd last treated me to champagne after a successful tour. Now that I think about it, it wasn't exactly the most innocent action. He _was_ at least ten years older than me. _And_ a hot-blooded male. That was probably another one of his tricks. I had been so blind, I couldn't see it.

I'd always denied it. But Greg intimidated me. I'd always avoid looking him directly in the eyes, in fear that I'd see something that would horrify me. He looked fairly ordinary; with his regular, flat brown hair and regular brown eyes. Yet, underneath his skin lay a beast. One that was only ever selfish.

"What do you want?" I take a breath, finally dragging my eyes up to stare into his. I lift my chin up, pushing confidence into my bones. _You can do this, Jess_. _Don't let him take advantage of you anymore._ It's like a layer of skin has been peeled from my eyes and I can _finally_ see who he really is. Black muscles pulse underneath his skin, maggots crawling within his twisted bones. His blood pours through his veins like tar, sticky and black.

He's a monster.

Greg smirks, amused at my antics. "I'm here," his low voice rumbles as he narrows his eyes powerfully at me, leaning down to pull his face closer to mine. "To make sure you don't ruin this for me, got it?"

I swallow hard. I'm convinced that Greg can see my fear riddling underneath my skin. Like my sweat. His breath stinks as he sneers at me, clasping the arms of my chair as he blocks me in. And for a second my heart believes he's going to rape me. He's going to grab me and force himself on me and _break_ me.

But then he chuckles darkly and pushes himself back to his feet.

"You think too lowly of me," I say, despite my erratic breath in my throat.

Greg's lips quirk up at one side as he glances at me nonchalantly, his arms crossed over his chest. His shirt creases unnaturally around his shoulders and I catch a glimpse of his sweat stains, making me grimace. "Is that right?"

"Yes," I spark up, sitting up straighter and feeling courage push itself into my bones. "Because," I swallow, setting my jaw and sweeping my hair off my shoulder, snapping my eyes on his. "I'm going to go in there and do my _job_."

"Just like _always,_ huh?" Greg scoffs, shaking his head. It's a dig at me. To him, I'm always the same. I never take risks. I never change things up. That makes it easier for him to use me. And I can see, by the way his eyes narrow challengingly at me, that he knows I know that.

"And then," I breathe, searching for some kind of words that will hit him in the gut. "Once that's done, I'll... I'll..."

"You'll what, Jess?" He raises a single eyebrow, chillingly amused. He uncrosses his arms, sticking his hands into the pockets of his jeans, as if he doesn't expect a single, intelligent word to come out of my mouth.

Suddenly, I'm filled with anger. Defiance. He has no right to think that about me. He doesn't know me at all. For a brief second, I feel like a lion, about to snarl at him. And bite him too.

My jaw tightens, and I'm shooting up to my feet and - due to my incredible skills developed over the years - manage to not to trip on my heels. "I'll quit. And start my own company, work for myself!" I set my hard eyes on him, feeling a surge of confidence and self-worth. Why hadn't I ever done this before?

Greg scoffs, letting out a humourless breath of a laugh escape his mouth. "You?" He stands straight in front of me, shaking his head and looking me up and down. My skin churns as if I can physically feel his greasy eyes all over my body. Just one downward stare from him makes me feel small. It always has. He's always been the one with the power. I'm just his pawn. I feel like I'm shrivelling up. Turning into dust. "You wouldn't get _anywhere_ on your own. You're _nothing_ without me."

 _No._ No. He's wrong. I'm _everything_ without him. It is him who made me nothing.

"One minute!" The attendant returns, that same, pleasant smile on his face. And he quickly ushers me out of the room.

But I have one more thing to say to Greg.

"I'm sure I'll see you in court after this," I smile sweetly, sending him a meaningful glare.

Greg shakes his head, laughing like he's amused. "And what are you going to sue me for?"

I tilt my head thoughtfully, feigning a pleasant expression. "I'm sure I'll find _something_." And then I'm leaving him standing gaping in the middle of the room as I take my first – and possibly last steps – onto the stage.


	40. Chris

He doesn't hate me. I have to keep reminding myself that over and over. Somehow, in this mass of a universe, through some scientific miracle, Matt doesn't hate me. Despite the fact that I didn't stop Mike from shooting Emily. Despite the fact that I had been testifying in the hopes that Mike would be released. Whatever that miracle is, it has saved my skin. _Literally_.

Though, how much I deserve that, I don't know.

"Remind me again why you're dragging me away?" Matt's chuckle sounds foreign to my ears. He seems deceivingly pleased to see us. Surprised, but pleased.

I can't get my head around that.

"Trust me," Ashley says under her breath. "You don't want to know."

It had been her who was the first to say anything after Matt and I had been staring at each other in shock. Me; shocked by the gruesome bruise on the side of his face, and terrified that he might give me one to match. Him; apparently pleasantly surprised.

It had only been Ashley's tugging on my arm and, her eyes bleeping with a hidden message, the words, "Let's go get some _coffee_ " that either of us had been snapped out of it.

"So, how have you guys been doing?" Matt asks cheerfully as we guide him out of the hospital, as far away from Dr. Hill as possible. I wouldn't be surprised if Dr. Hill had constructed this for some elaborate plan. Now that we knew what this guy was capable of, I don't think there's anything I would accuse him of.

Matt eyes as playfully. "Are you guys..." He smirks knowingly. "When did you guys...?" And then his features fall and he's trapped in a trance. His forehead creases, like his thoughts are too heavy for his skin. He's struggling with something. Searching for something in his mind. "No," he says quietly, his breath low and heavy like he's found what he was looking for. And he isn't comfortable with it. "You already were..."

None of us say anything more as we scurry out of the hospital. Matt's enthusiasm is gone and he almost grows limp beside us. We almost have to physically drag him through the gleaming, windowed automatic doors. Ashley and I only pass meaningful glances between us. A conversation with our eyes.

Something's not right.

* * *

"Did you drink anything recently?" I ask strongly, my forearms pressed against the table, my eyes trained on Matt.

His eyebrows dip in confusion as he lifts his mug into the air. "Does coffee count?"

"No," I say, lowering my voice just a tad so that no one else in the cafe can hear us. The room is fairly quiet, with only a few couples and business meetings happening around. The lacy material of the tablecloth itches against my skin and I jerk my arms away so I don't have to touch it. It feels like rashes. "I mean alcohol or... _drugs_."

Matt's expression creases in amusement. "What? No," he scoffs, laughing at the ridiculous, evidently unexpected question. "The last time I drank was... No." He pauses again, realisation and mourning passing over his eyes. His face settles back to that hauntingly conflicted expression. "I drank... recently. I remember drinking. Picking up a bottle... But I don't know _why_." He lets out a frustrated groan and collapses his head in his hands.

I glance at Ashley who looks as pained as me. This is not the Matt that either of us are used to. Matt version 1 was destroyed after the night on the mountain. He came back as a completely new version, anger and frustration and grief all mangled in his wires. Now, for some reason, that version had gone. And the third version? Well, he felt like the first but with technical errors. Something in the wiring. The hard drive.

I nudge my head in Matt's direction, sending Ashley a silent message; _Should I tell him?_

She shakes her head violently.

I sigh reluctantly, passing her an apologetic look; _I have to_.

"Listen," I say, turning my attention back to Matt. He lifts his heavy head, looking at me under low, defeated lids. "Matt. There's been someone-"

Ashley jabs her elbow violently into my side and I yelp, shooting her a glare. Matt's eyes are passing between us like a tennis ball.

"There's been someone following us," I say painfully, my voice tight as I rub the spot where Ash hit me. "Taking photographs of all of us. Including you. We found out at the trial."

I recoil away from Ashley just in case she decides to hit me again. But she looks far too focused on Matt, her expression anxiously curious. I relax, though I'm not fully prepared to put my guard down. Sometimes, she can be relentless.

Matt is staring at me. Frozen, his expression churning into something like disorientation. He keeps staring. Five beats too long.

Then; "What trial?"

"What?" I blink at him, my jaw almost falling open. Ashley slaps me on the shoulder and I whimper, glancing sharply in her direction. _See?_ her eyes say, like _I told you so._

 _What?_ my eyes bulge back, confused.

Her eyes are set on mine for a moment and I can tell her mind is working overdrive. Then she turns back to Matt, smiles sweetly, saying, "We'll just be a moment." And then tugs me out of the booth, dragging me out of the main cafe and into the toilets.

"There's something _up_ with him," Ashley says meaningfully, sharply, making her point as clearly as possible.

"Yeah," I drag out the word, glancing around nervously in case I get caught in the girl's bathroom and branded a pervert. "But what?"

"I don't know," Ashley sounds unsure. But she has confidence in her theory. I can tell. She never lets up when she's sure about something. "Maybe it's to do with the trial. Maybe he's under so much stress, his brain blanked out. I've heard of that happening to people."

"Ash, honestly," I begin regretfully. But the sound of the bathroom door creaks open before I can say anymore and Ashley grabs my wrist, yanking me with her into the nearest cubicle. She slams the door closed and clicks the lock just as footsteps find their way into the room.

It's right in this spot. Ashley is almost pressed against me as we lean against opposite walls. I catch her eye, wiggling my eyebrows as if to say _Perfect opportunity_ and she glares playfully, hitting me silently on the shoulder. I clutch it with my hands, my forehead creasing in feigned agony as I pretend to suffer terribly from the wound. A giggle escapes her throat just before she snaps her hand over her mouth, her eyes filled with alarm and laughter. This moment feels like a breath of air amidst the suffocation. My eyes trail down her cheeks, catching the way her eyelashes fall against her skin as she blinks. I smile at her freckles peaking out from underneath her mouth-covering hands, finding myself creating a dot-to-dot pattern with them. She. Ashley. If it weren't for her, I'm sure I wouldn't be in the place that I am now. Mentally stable. Recovering. _Alive_.

For a moment, I let my expression relax into a natural one. And I'm reaching forward, peeling her hands away from her lips. My mind empties of everything. Everything but her. The teasing way her red hair brushes against her soft skin, her big, trusting eyes. The way they search mine. Communicate with mine, like we always do.

And, with an effortless breath, I'm closing the space between us-

"Christopher?"

My heart shoots out of my chest, my body slamming back against the wall in horror. Ashley's eyes are wide. Terrified.

"Ashley?" The male's voice speaks. It isn't Matt's. It's rougher. Casual. Experienced. "I know you're in here."

It's hard to breathe. My throat is choking, my chest thumping. I send Ashley a _Should I?_ look.

She just looks back at me helplessly. She doesn't know.

So, with a breath to steal some confidence, I lift my hand up to the lock, click it and pull the door slowly open, preparing for whatever dread await us.


	41. Sam

I never wanted to revisit this place. Of anywhere that I could have chosen, it would never have been here. Police tape still flutters in the draughty air, ripped shreds of it tied to the door-frame. It's almost like Emily's voice is trapped in this room, bouncing wall to wall, never reaching the door, never escaping. I can almost hear her insistent, persuasive cries of begging whistling in the wind, howling through the cracks. This is where I could have saved her. If I'd just said the right words. If we'd just looked in that diary as soon as we'd found it.

I think these thoughts have always been haunting me. I've just never been awakened to them. Not until now. Not until I returned to their origins. Here.

Wolfie is still whimpering in the corner, like he's crying, like he's missing something. Or someone.

I feel like Tag's going to appear behind me any minute, scaring whatever life I have left in me out. He's probably creepy enough to do that. I don't know what Wolfie saw in him.

But, for now, Tag has abandoned us. I'm not mad at him for abandoning me – or Josh. We hadn't even invited him anyway – whoever the heck he was. But I was furious that he'd just _left_ Wolfie like that. The wolf's wide, black eyes shimmer almost like they're glistening with tears. Whoever Tag was to Wolfie, he was important. And I hate him for it.

"Josh," I say, my voice croaking and listless. "Let's... find the video." I swallow, my throat dry and coarse. I can't look at that wall, that corkboard, anymore. The blood smeared over it, accompanied by the shape of a square where a piece of paper had been stuck next to it. A number assigned by the police obviously, for the case. They'd cleaned up most of their mess. But it still feels like they are here. Their plastic boots squeaking against the concrete as they clinically examine pieces of each of our lives without ever understanding any of it.

I push myself to my feet, from where I hadn't recovered from crouching down next to where Wolfie had been. My joints crack as I move, sounding too ominously like those I'd been crunching beneath my feet on the floors above my head. I rake fingers through my dry, brittle hair, feeling sweat dripping from the ends. But, when I pull my hand back, it's red. Blood. Dribbling across my fingers, sinking into the creases on my hands.

I panic. Squeeze my eyes shut. Count to ten.

Open. Nothing. It was all my imagination.

But it's not all fictional, is it? It's not just Mike who has Emily's blood on his hands. It's on Josh's for leading us all here. It's on Ashley's for encouraging Mike, on Chris' for not stopping her. On mine for not stopping any of them.

I shiver. Josh is stood silent standing, shoulders hunched, by the grated door. He's fidgeting, always shifting, never able to stay still. His mind is always churning, never resting. And so he can't. The wheels are twisting behind his eyes as they try and ignore the room, his lips mouthing silently to words only he knows.

"Come on," I whisper, my body heavy with guilt. It feels like something in this room is clinging on to me, not letting me leave. It sends chills up my spine. It only makes me want to hurry out of it more. But I force my eyes to graze around the room. The six CCTV television screens lined up against one wall. One of them has been violently smashed in by a piece of fallen rubble. So Tag was right. This _was_ the right direction (I'll never admit it out loud though. And definitely not to his face, if I ever have the misfortune of seeing him again.) The video must be here. Somewhere. How the hell the police didn't search it, I don't know. "Let's find this thing and... get out of here."

I push forward, towards the screens, crouching down to find any kind of hard-drive. Whatever is clinging onto me feels stronger here, like it's sucking me in. I swallow, batting at air, trying to push it away. "Josh?" I glance back at him, sending him a meaningful glance. He looks almost like he's in a trance, staring straight at the blood on the corkboard. _No, Sam. Don't look at it. Not again_. "Where is it? Is it here?"

And then the thing gripping onto me develops a voice. A bark.

Wolfie erupts into barks, lunging across the room and scuffing his paws against the ground.

"Wolfie?" I turn around cautiously, surprised at the wolf's actions. I shake my head and sigh, feeling the pressure of time on me, and I slap the side of my thigh with my palm. "Come on, Wolfie." If Josh can't help me, maybe Wolfie can. Though what skills he could bring to the table, I don't know.

He simply yaps, his claws scraping against the concrete just under the table where Emily was shot. Josh cocks his head as if on command, connecting with Wolfie. I narrow my eyes at the both of them, feeling my chest tightening. Wolfie isn't stupid. There's something there, I know it. Something about that place he's digging.

Cautiously, I take two steps forward, my eyes avoiding the smeared blood – you'd think the police would have the decency to clean it up afterwards – almost gagging at the rotting smell, and peer around Wolfie. He glances up at me with those big, black eyes, and barks at me. "What is it, buddy?" I ask slowly, crouching down at his level. His claws have scuffed, the cold, concrete tiled floor with white lines. But he keeps nudging his nose towards a crack between two of the tiles. My eyes catch it. A glimpse of white, sticking up.

"Good boy," I mutter to Wolfie just as I reach forward and tug on the white shred of paper, pulling it out. Slow and irregular footprints scuff over to me and, for a second, I think Tag's come back. But, with a glance behind my shoulder, I see it's only Josh. His eyes innocently and reluctantly curious.

I let myself breathe before I slowly peel open the piece of paper. It's sharp, folded edges crinkle with age, spreading it open. Writing. Swift, quick writing, like whoever penned this was in a serious rush. I can barely make out the words that have filled the page, the ink faded and blotched.

But there are definitely two words I recognise.

My breath hitches as I read the first, positioned right at the top of the page; _Matt_.

And the second is even worse. It makes my stomach curdle. As if Wolfie can tell, he shuffles close to me, his paws scuffing against the cold floor. I feel his warm fur press against my side.

I even feel Josh move closer to me, unsure, as he places a hand against my shoulder and whispers, "Don't cry, Sam." As if he even knows what's happening. I doubt he does.

Because there, at the bottom of the letter, is another name. One I thought I'd never hear from again.

 _Em_.


	42. Interlude 7 - Emily, Matt, Wolfie

**Emily**

The trigger clicks. Black gun, black bullet. Black heart.

Cutting through the air. Towards her. To kill her.

Seconds. Only seconds left.

One last breath.

One last-

The image flickers. Crackles like a TV screen. Cuts out.

Blackness.

One more breath.

Two more.

It's gone. The gun. The bullet. The memory.

Gone.

Replaced with darkness. Relief. Heavy relief.

Is it over?

A pinprick of light cuts open the darkness. Unlocked. A tunnel. Towards the light.

Move, Emily. Move towards it.

Push through the darkness. The thick darkness.

Move move move.

Quick quick quick.

* * *

**Matt**

Ashley and Chris have been gone for over ten minutes. Matt's head crumbles in his hands. Confusion is eating away at him. Frustration. A trial? What has been happening while Matt's mind has been sleeping?

He hates himself. He hates not being able to remember. He wants to knock on his head, crack it open with his fist. Pour out the secrets. The truth.

"Are you finished with your drinks?" The meek voice of a waitress asks beside him. He glances up at her indistinct face, her hands clasped politely in front of her apron. He shakes his head.

She nods with a small smile, retreating back to the kitchen.

He collapses his head on the cafe table. His coffee mug clinks, his elbow nudging it, the liquid sloshing. The lacy tablecloth is rough on his forehead, on his bruise. He flinches but doesn't move.

His pocket buzzes. His phone.

With a heavy skull, he pushes his head off the table just enough to pull out his cellphone and look at the screen. _Unknown_.

It's that number again. He recognises the digits. At least he can remember _something_.

"Hello?" He croaks as he presses the phone to his cheek.

"Ah, Matthew," the man says on the other end of the phone. "It's Dr. Hill."

Matt sighs, leaning the side of his face against his arm, cringing as his bruise pulses.

"I believe we had set up an arrangement? Were you not able to make your appointment?"

Matt shakes his head with a heavy sigh. "I'm... a little busy right now," he sighs.

"Ah," Dr. Hill says politely through the receiver. "Understandable. Well, tell Christopher and Ashley I say hello."

 _Click_.

Matt stares at the phone for a minute. Dr. Hill knows Matt is with Chris and Ashley?

" _There's been someone following us. Taking photographs of all of us. Including you."_

So... that's why Chris and Ashley took him away.

He thinks.

He doesn't know if he can trust anything he thinks anymore.

* * *

**Wolfie**

Woof.

Woof woof woof.

Bark bark!

Swish swish. Wags tail.

"Good boy."

Scratch scratch. Pat pat. Reward.


	43. Jessica

"On air," one of the men behind a large camera right in front of us says, "In five, four," and he continues to mouth the numbers silently, his fingers counting down to one. The bright lights blare in my eyes and my force myself not to squint, their glare blurring out the features of the audience behind them. Just a crowd, an entity of multiple heads, waiting for my demise.

I won't let them see it. So I lift my chin up higher, brush off my pencil shirt where I sit and readjust the smile on my face.

"Welcome back," one of the hosts – Liz, apparently – cheerfully addresses the audience just as the camera starts rolling. As soon as I knew I'd be featured on the show, I'd done as much research as I could – well, as much as possible on a cell phone on a fifteen minute journey to the studio. I couldn't very well appear on a show without knowing anything about their topics or hosts. Apparently, it is a show that focuses on real crimes and mysteries – no wonder I've never watched it before.

"We're continuing our feature on the crime that occurred atop Blackwood Mountain two years ago," Liz continues with that practiced smile on her face, her dirty blonde hair tied back in a clinical, ponytail high on the back of her head. "And we are now joined by one of the victims, Jessica Mallinson. Jessica?" Liz turns her perk head towards me from where she sits opposite, her body prim and proper on a matching steal bar stool to mine.

"Hello," I respond politely, addressing the camera before flicking my gaze back to Liz. "It's lovely to be here." Generic lines. Easy to say. Easilyy unpersonalised.

"I'm sure it is," Liz's co-host chimes in from beside her. Dean. Another unremarkable name. Where do these studios hire these hosts? "Now, Jessica," he tries his best at sounding pleasant. But his gruff voice doesn't do anything for him – no matter how hard his stylists try to trim his dark scruff. "We understand that you were up on the mountain that fateful night that your friend Emily was shot. Is that right?"

I swallow at the sound of her name. Accompanied by _friend_. We had been that once. It felt like an age ago. Like somebody had ripped that fact from us like a chunk of flesh. The flesh that had sewn us together as best friends. And then shoved us far away from each other.

It even had a name: _Mike_.

It had been over such trivial things. Over a _guy_. How many times, in our haze of adolescence, had we declared that a guy would never separate us?

And yet it had.

And she'd died hating me. And – no matter how much I refuse to believe that Emily is still around, haunting me – she still does.

"Yes," I say, nodding my head, my primness failing. Just for a second. Just while I recover from my diverging thoughts. I hadn't planned this. I hadn't planned it to go this way. "I was. But," I take a breath to explain. And to calm my voice. "I wasn't at the scene when she was... killed."

"Oh?" Liz looks surprised, though I'm sure she already knows the facts. At least the 'facts' that the press force fed people. She's done her own research. "That's interesting."

Dean tries his best to look equally as interested as he leans forward just a bit. I fear that his bar stool is going to topple over from his weight. "May I ask where you were then?" I think Dean needs a lesson in politeness; adding _May I ask_ to the beginning of a question doesn't make it any less rude.

"I," I start, my throat closing up. _No, Jessica._ My instincts want to switch off. They want to repress the memories, push them away. They threaten everything that I have, every single thing I've recovered for myself.

It feels like I've been like this for such a long time. It had started with Mike. The answer had seemingly lied in pushing him away. He had been the epitome of my past. Every time he came to visit me in rehab, I saw his face – my vision smearing dirt and screams across his skin – I relapsed. I had shoved him away when he'd needed me the most. And it hadn't even been anything to do with him in the first place! It was me! It was always me!

I'd pushed myself away as I had done him. Shoved her in a drawer and locked it, throwing away the key. But she still rattles at it from the inside. Battling to come out. Never fully sealed.

For a brief second, I glance towards the audience, my eyes blinking rapidly at the bright lights. _Jessica_ , I counteract my inner instincts. _You've been pushing your past for too long. Open that drawer. Face up to it._

_Face up!_

"I wasn't in the lodge," my voice shoots out, shocking even me. I blink, readjusting my eyes to the hosts. A stiff smile returns to my lips. Unnatural.

Dean narrows his eyes curiously at me. I can't tell if he's genuine or not anymore. I feel disorientated. Blinded by the lights. My head throbbing. "Where were you then?"

My throat is dry. I can't look him in the eyes anymore. My neck is sticky with sweat. My face heating up. Dizzy.

"I-" The words are struggling to crawl out of my dry throat. I forget my stature as I swipe the back of my hand against my forehead, sweat clammy against my skin. "I was in the mines."

This stopped feeling like an interview a long time ago. This feels like an interrogation. Someone chiselling into my skull, cracking a big enough hole to see inside. To see my innermost being. The vulnerable, shattered Jessica, broken and lying in the mines. Ribs cracking as she breathes, her bones chattering as she moves. Lost. Looking. _Broken_.

"The mines?" Liz asks, sceptical. "Why were you there?"

_The truth, Jessica._

"I was dragged there."

I can hear the whole audience collectively hitch their breaths. "Dragged?" Liz asks. She looks surprised. But I can't focus my eyes on her. They are wandering everywhere but her face, like my erratic heart. My skin is raw and hot. I can't concentrate.

"By _Mike_?" Dean leans forward even more, speaking on impulse. He quickly retreats back, his hand lifting to an earpiece as he mutters a short, quiet _sorry_.

"No," I snap out, my eyes adjusting to the two hosts. My voice is surprisingly strong. I feel an overwhelming need to defend Mike. Whatever he did to Emily, he doesn't deserve this.

 _He saved my life_.

"Not Mike!" I say confidently, my eyes wild. I can even see the doubt in both Liz and Dean's eyes even through my unfocused eyes.

"Who then?" Dean asks cautiously.

I can't answer. I flicker my gaze to the audience. The crew. They'd think I was crazy. They'd all think I was crazy.

"Not one of those... " _wendigos_ "," Liz scoffs, shaking her head and leaning back in her chair. She swivels towards the audience and commentates, "If you haven't seen the news reports – though, I'm sure you have – the defendant Mike has been declaring that some _mythical creature_ was the reason he killed the victim."

The audience ripples in laughter.

I burn. My stomach sizzles, dread and anger twisting it. My fists itch to clench. But I force them not to. I can't.

_Jessica. Composure._

I straighten my back.

_Composure is everything._

"And," Liz pulls out a plastic file from beside her. She's come _prepared_ for this. She wanted this topic to come up. She had been itching for it. "I believe your friend _Samantha_ – who was also another _victim_ – has set up her own blog declaring that these _things_ are real. She seems quite _determined_." Dean glances at Liz. He didn't know anything about this either. With a smug smile, Liz slips a piece of paper out of the file and adjusts it in her hands. "Let me read an excerpt."

Another laugh from the audience.

They're making fun of them. Declaring them as idiots to the _world._

"Stop," I breathe.

Liz glances up. She doesn't look surprised.

"Excuse me?" Liz asks, her head cocked. She sounds pleasant but I can see something unsettling in her eyes.

"Liz," Dean whispers beside her, nudging her in the side. "Stop."

She responds by sending her co-host a glare.

"I said stop," I raise myself up in my seat. I can feel the beady eyes of the audience on me. Sceptical. Comical. Excited for some drama. But I block that out. I've become quite skilled at blocking things out. "They're... my friends."

I haven't said that word in _so long_. It finally feels like I can _breathe_. Like that word has been blocking my throat like a plug.

They _are_ my friends. And all I did was shove them away. Shove them in that drawer with myself. Tears sting my eyes. I fiercely swipe them away.

"And," I say sharply. "They're not lying."

I turn quickly to the audience, the bright lights almost blinding me. But I don't stop. I force my gaze to go past them. To those indistinct faces. "Those things. They are _real_. And I don't _care_ if you don't believe me."

Then I adjust my gaze back to Liz and Dean. They look frozen in their seats. Dean looks terrified. Like he's thinking ' _I didn't sign up for this_ '. Liz just looks shocked. All her words have scattered from her mouth. Just like the papers that had been in her hands – and now had fallen onto the floor.

"I'd care for you to treat my friends with respect," I say, my eyes hardening. I can use my shell for good. "They've been through a lot."

And then I swivel on my chair, hop off it and stride off the stage; branded a fool to the whole nation.


	44. Chris

The cubicle door swings open with an eerie creak. The room is empty. Blank, clean white tiles lining the floor and walls. Just a box of tiles. Nobody. Not a soul.

I glance at Ashley who's huddled behind me, passing her a bewildered look. Hers are shivering in silent fear. Had we just imagined the voice? The footsteps? Our names?

I shake my head, blinking my eyes, trying to rattle out the madness in my skull. I let out a sigh of relief, turning back towards the rest of the bathroom-

And, like a force has shoved into my chest, I always shatter back through the wall.

There, leaning between two of the sinks, is a man. He's crossed his arms across his chest, his caramel skin moulding over his muscles. "Good day," he greets us with a half smile, his dark hair rough and littered with grey dust, like he's just strolled out of some collapsing building. Casually, he unclasps his arms from across his chest and brings one up to shake the dust out of his hair. It falls like dandruff to the white tiled floor. And then disintegrates. Vanishes.

"I have to say," he mutters, pushing himself off the mirrored wall, an amused smile on his face. "Ashley, you did a great job in following my clues. I'm impressed." He raises a single eyebrow, "And your friend Sam too."

Ashley stiffens beside me, her hands clasping onto my bicep. _Sam_. He's been involved with her too.

" _The photographs; on that site? They're not just photos! They're clues!"_

My throat clenches. "It was _you_?" I shake my head, disbelieving. Who the hell even was this guy? "I thought- Dr. Hill-"

The man chuckles under his breath. "I really doubt Dr. Hill would have invited you to find out all his secrets." He shrugs casually. "He's just pretty quick in improvising."

"Are you," Ashley's voice is tight beside me. This man has pulled up her fear again. Her anxiety. "One of them?"

The man smiles apologetically. Genuine. His eyes look sad. "I'm sorry this happened to you," he nods, his voice gruff but authentic. I don't know whether I believe him or not. "But no, I don't work for him." By his queasy expression, it looks like that would be the last thing he'd be caught dead doing. For some reason, that makes me relax. Just a little bit.

"Why," I start, feeling a flicker of confidence growing. I reach behind me and grab Ashley's hand, slowly leading her out with me. She tugs back on my hand, like she's rooting her heels into the floor, determined not to move from her spot. But I glance meaningfully back at her, assuring her it'll be alright. She glares back but I can feel her pulse settle – just a little – underneath my fingers. And she obliges. "Are you here then?"

The man sticks his hands in his pockets, shrugs and says, "I wanted to make sure you were alright."

That sounds like the most unnatural thing that could have come out of his mouth. I narrow my eyes at him, feeling slightly uncomfortable. I'm unsure. There are exactly 16 tiles length between us, from where he stands to where we are. I am determined to keep that distance.

"And," he breathes, a sad smile readjusting itself on his face. "I wanted to say." His eyes lift up to my face. Not Ashley's. Mine. "Stop hating yourself over his death. You couldn't have done anything about it."

My mouth runs dry. Ashley glances at me in shock, surprise, confusion. _The Stranger_. How does he know about him? How did he know any of that had _happened_? My eyes feel like they are bleeding. Burning and pricking. I grit my teeth to force myself not to cry.

I can feel my whole body heating up. I've tried to forget the memory. The sickening sound of his head plopping in the snow. His blood creeping out into it, turning it red. The crunching sound of my fear, like the slicing of the wendigo's claw across his neck. And then my pounding footsteps, like the rushing of my heart, as that exact fear had shoved me out of there. Abandoning him. _Killing him_.

Ashley squeezes my hand beside me. She knows. Of _course_ she knows. I had told her, through a tight throat and waterlogged eyes, my guilt. The heavy feelings that were dragging me down. Making each of my footsteps heavier and heavier as they dragged the weight of my regret on the back of my heels. I had tried to forget. But I never really had. It was always there. That lingering guilt.

"Who are you?" my voice croaks as I swipe away rebellious tears from my cheeks.

I feel Ashley lean her forehead against my shoulder and whisper tight but reassuring words. Forgiving words. Despite myself, despite the company, I wrap my arm around her shoulders and press a kiss to her temple. A brief thank you amidst the fear, the guilt, the memories.

The man heaves his heavy shoulders up in a shrug. And I can see something genuine in his facial expression. A kind of remorse. An understanding. "You can call me Tag," he rolls one shoulder. And for a second, I think I see him flicker. Like a computer screen losing connection for a split second. And he looks like he's losing strength.

And then he's moving. Quickly, like he's in a rush, towards the door. But before he wraps his hand around the handle, and opens it, he turns back towards us and smiles meaningfully, raising his eyebrows. "Ashley," he hums. There's a pleasant amusement in his eyes. "You better say yes."

And then he's gone.

And it's silent.

The room is once again just a box of tiles. And I let out a breath. Ashley's shoulders relax beside me.

Without any words, I'm yanking my phone out of my pocket and searching for any articles focused on The Stranger that night. They must have found his body. Some DNA. Some _name_.

And then my mind remembers. I glance up towards the mirrored wall, my heart pounding. How had I never registered it before?

Tag never had a reflection.


	45. Sam

****

_'Matt,'_

My eyes skim over the handwritten, scrawled words, deciphering them as I go.

_'I can't believe I'm writing a bloody love letter. But you need to know that if I don't make it out of here, I love you. And whatever whore gets you next... she better deserve you. I was always devoted to you. You need to know that. Even if I didn't show it. If I ever survive this, you are in no way in hell seeing this. You better be grateful, Matt._

_Love, Em.'_

She wrote him a letter. I fiercely rub at my eyes. No. I'm not crying. Despite the tear stain that has suddenly appeared on the torn out piece of paper. I swipe it away, as if to cover it up. It only makes the letters bleed more. I curse under my breath before folding the letter up and stuffing it into my back pocket.

True, Em didn't write an exactly sensitive letter. And she was probably in a rush. The coal smears across the paper, fungi from the mines, is a clear sign she wasn't exactly in the most _safe_ place to write it. But Matt is not going without seeing this. I don't know what good it will do. Maybe give him some reason to forgive Mike? Maybe give him some closure?

Maybe we all need that. We've been holding for two years. Sometimes time just _doesn't_ give you all the answers. Sometimes you have to go and get them yourself.

I push myself to my feet, my knee joints cracking like brittle, Fall leaves. My heart feels heavy against my ribs. _Full_. Like it's holding too much, being relied on too much. And it can't hold much longer. Or it'll burst. And smear blood within the cave of my chest.

"Sammy?" Josh's voice is quiet and raspy beside me. I don't think he understands what's going on.

"Let's find the video," I breathe, sharply turning away. His hand drops limp from my shoulder.

The video is my priority. It always was my priority. I can't afford to get distract.

"Come on, buddy," I shuffle past Wolfie who's thick body is still sat in the same place at my feet, refusing to move. He looks up at me with those big eyes of his, and for a second I think I see my tears reflected in them. I jolt away, shaking away whatever is clinging onto me, it's long, tight fingers swaying from my shoulders.

I focus my eyes on the computer screens. "It's got to be here somewhere," I mutter under my breath, my shivering fingers brushing away ash from the rubble across the desk. "Josh," I harden my voice, though it's cracking like the ceiling above my head. "I'd really appreciate it if-"

"I'm sorry."

His voice is the tiniest thing in the room. And yet it fills up the whole space.

My head shifts of its own accord, swerving around to stare at Josh. He's stood in the same place I left him, his shoulders hunched. His posture makes Chris' clothes look far too big on him, like they're baggy, like he's too scrawny for them. For a second, he's a flash of skeleton. The image of what we all could have become that night.

And then he's lifting his eyes to meet mine. And it's like he's opened the gates. Like I can see the true him for the first time. Before the prank, he'd never really been all there. He'd been hiding a little bit of himself away. And then after Beth and Hannah's disappearance, it had heightened. And he'd all shown us a perfect, figurative version of Josh. A fictional one.

Even when he'd outed himself as the maniac, he was still locking a part of himself away. Even before he was locked up by the state, he'd been imprisoning himself for years.

I think he's put that key in the lock and twisted it. And unlocked it.

"What for, Josh?" I ask. Even if I know the answer. Even if I don't want to hear it.

His tongue slips out of his mouth, skimming across his dry bottom lip. His eyes avert from mine. He sniffs, shrugging his shoulders asymmetrically. "I don't know."

"You do know, Josh," I say, taking a step towards him, my voice tight, my breath hitching. My eyes don't move from his face. Even as Wolfie shuffles back to give me space. The rubble underneath my feet crunches as I take step after step until I'm right under his face. It feels too close. Too warm, too personal.

But it also feels a lot more right than being away from him.

"Look at me, Josh," my eyes are searching for his, but he keeps shuffling them away, like scuttling bugs inside his eye sockets.

He shakes his head. "No," he mutters. His lips are tight. He finds it hard not to listen to me. I can't believe he trusted me enough not to take advantage of that.

"Josh," I say quietly. My hand lifts up on it's own, carefully and slowly. I can't stop it as it rests against Josh's skinny bicep. Josh's eyes light up, like he didn't even expect that. Wolfie whimpers behind me and Josh sends him a childlike glare. Despite myself, a humorous smile tugs at the sides of my lips.

It's short-lived.

"I never meant to hurt you," Josh finally mutters, shuffling where he stands. He can't keeps still. Like his feelings are rattling inside his body like bowling skittles.

A breath escapes my lungs. My whole body relaxes.

And then Josh's hand tugs at something from his bag pocket, shoving it in my direction. My hands are met with a sharp-cornered, plastic CD case. I glance down at it, the silver disc shimmering in the low light. "Is this...?"

I can feel Josh nod in front of me.

"When did you-?"

Josh shrugs, "I'm fast."

I glance at him. His face crumbles in horror. "Not in other things," he splutters out, his mouth cringing into a sideways grin. "Just... so you know."

I snort, shoving him in the shoulder. It's accompanied by an eye roll. He'll never really understand the relief I feel at finally seeing a glimmer of the old Josh. Even though he'll never be fully here. Even though I know there's a part of him that has been forever chipped off. Like his sisters. Like his sanity.

But, for a brief moment, I can forget that I have to say goodbye. At least to that part of him.

"Thanks, Josh," I smile, clutching the disc to my chest – the very last of my hope coming to fruition. His eyes finally meet mine. I don't let him know but I make a mental note to check that this really is the video. _Just_ in case.

I never know with Josh. Not really.

"You too, Sammy."

 


	46. Jessica

Their eyes shun me from the studio. It makes me walk faster, the exhilaration from the action on the stage burning up quickly, giving just enough energy to rush past my ex-dressing room and then escape the building completely. It feels like I've lost something – a thing that I might regret soon. But I don't think I ever had wanted it in the first place. For the first time, something feels right. I feel free. And I just need the wind to kick up underneath my wings so I can sweep myself up into the sky.

But as soon as my body hits the cool breeze outside, I realise I'm too heavy to do that. It's not enough for me to declare to the world that I _regret_ abandoning my friends without saying that to their faces. Without plucking up the courage to apologise. And, in most ways, that's harder than announcing it to millions of people across the world. Because those people don't know the inner most intimacy's about me. They've seen a surface image, a glossy painting constructed with paper-thin skin and make up. Matt, Sam, Chris, Ashley. _Mike_. Damn, even Josh. They've all seen what's under there. And it's not pretty.

_You need to do it, Jessica._

No matter how much I want to cringe away from it. As much as I want to pat myself on the back for standing up in front of a nation and then call it a day, I know I can't.

I'm scared.

My hand hesitates before it slips inside my pocket and pulls out my cellphone. I flick open my contacts, taking a breath and swallowing it right back down. Maybe, subconsciously, I knew this was going to happen. Because I've kept all their contacts. They've all just been sitting there, waiting to be called. _Just in case_.

 _I can't call Matt_. He doesn't even _know_ I need to apologise to him.

And Mike is out of the question. For one, he's locked in prison. Secondly, I doubt he'd ever want to hear from me again. Not after what I did to him.

My thumb scrolls down my contacts, hovering over Sam's name. For a second, I envisage her understanding self letting a smile settle on her face. And then my mind twists it into a grimace. A glare that doesn't fit right in Sam's face.

My thumb scrambles up my contacts and stab Chris' name before I can rethink it. _It's okay, Jess. Chris will listen._ Memories of his face at the prison, when I'd traipsed past him, hover inside my head, reassuring me. He had looked so open, like he'd _wanted_ me to speak. To talk to him. And in the hospital too. With Ashley. There had been no hatred in his eyes. No grudge.

With a heavy hand, I lift the cellphone to my ear just as I hear a click and Chris' voice mutter, "Hello?" on the other end.

 _Jess._ For a second, I'm frozen. _Say something._

"Chris?" I say before my instincts can force my body to hang up.

"Jess?" Chris asks dubiously. Like he'd never expected me of all people to phone.

A day ago, _I'd_ have never expected me to phone.

"Yes," I breathe, trying to steady myself. My legs are rattling underneath me. The burning hot exhilaration has fizzled out. Now I'm just freezing in the cold wind, huddling within myself. I glance back at the studio. It's so tempting to just go back inside, to warm back up in it's comfort. But I can't. I can't go back to that life anymore. "It's me."

Chris sounds almost flustered. But then he coughs to clear his throat, sounds of clinking glasses and bustling sounds of life behind him, and says, "'Sup?"

* * *

The rusting, car door creaks with a horrendous, oil-deprived squeak as Chris opens it from the inside. I try my best to twist my cringe into a smile. But I'm sure it just ends up looking like a highly unattractive grimace.

A day ago – no, an hour ago – I'd never be seen dead inside a car like that. It looks just like Chris has picked it from the scrap yard and haphazardly painted it a maroon red. But it's surprisingly a lot more appealing than trapping myself alone within a taxi.

"You getting in?" Chris raises his eyebrows, gesturing to the seat beside him. I offer him a somewhat pleasant smile and remind myself I'm supposed to be making amends before I nod and make my way down the steps to his car. He leans back as I reach it and, hesitating briefly, climb into it, closing the door behind me.

"So, where you going, Ma'am?" He sets a grin on his face. I forgot how irritating his humour was. But at that moment, I'm surprisingly grateful for it. It immediately breaks the tension. I sink back into my seat, clipping on my seatbelt.

"Don't expect me to pay you for this," I mutter, the slightest of smiles tugging at the side of my lips.

Chris chuckles, his taxi facade dropped. For a moment, I think I see it drop too far, where he's flexing his hands on the steering wheel, his adam's apple bobbing. Something has happened. I can't tell what.

But then he twists the key in the ignition, adjusts the gear stick and splutters the car into life.

"Just," Chris shifts his jaw side to side, unsure of whether to say his next words, "So you know. Matt's at the cafe too."

" _Matt_?" I thought I left him in the apartment. I let out a frustrated sigh, shaking my head. But then I remembered leaving the keys for him – saying it was just in case he needed to escape. Because of a robber. Or, you know, a fire. But maybe it was because I didn't want to trap him like I was trapping myself. It was probably some ridiculous metaphor of letting him be free. Or something.

"Yeah," Chris hums, the car chugging along the road. I almost think I can smell the smoke coming out of the exhaust. "There's... something really _off_ with him." He glances at me for a brief second before adjusting his gaze to the road. Safety first. "Do you know what's happened?"

A sigh escapes my mouth. Of _course_ they noticed. Even if Matt wasn't spitting out about Emily, it was still pretty obvious that there had been a drastic change. "Yes," I swallow. "It's a long story." I lean my head against my palm, my elbow hooked in the side of the door. "He's... forgotten all about Emily dying... or something."

Chris is silent beside me. I can almost envision his eyes widening, almost falling off from the road. _'Unbelievable'_. Yeah. I know.

"Some... guy," I breathe out, putting to hell with all my reservations. "Turned up at my doorstop. Asked me to look out for Matt. Said his name was Tag, that he was the son of someone who died on the same night that Emily did."

Chris has stiffened beside me. "Are you sure he said his name was Tag?" his voice is small. I glance at him in surprise. Worry is stricken across Chris' face. Has he met Tag too?

"Yes?" I say slowly, dragging the word out, worry finding itself in my voice too.

Chris slips the end of his tongue out of his mouth, his lips dry, before he swallows. His eyes are locked on the road. "Jessica," he says slowly. "I've looked into the guy on the mountain. The guy who came to speak to us. Some stranger." He breathes heavily, the car slowing at a red traffic light. He pulls on the handbrake and finally looks at me.

My heart is beating unrationally in my chest. I want to just bark, " _What is it, Chris?!"_ just to get him to spit it out. Apparently, I don't like suspense.

"News reports. They said his name was Jack Hunt," Chris mouths the words slowly, his eyebrows folding over themselves. "And that he didn't have any close family. He didn't _have_ any sons."


	47. Chris

"Aren't you freezing?" My gaze flickers to Jessica who has just been hit by the cold, autumnal breeze outside the car.

"What?" She glances at me before readjusting her gaze down at her body. She's wrapped her bare arms around her thinly clad body. Whatever she had been rushing from, she must have forgotten her jacket. Her blonde hair blows across her face as she tugs at it, strands of it sticking to her lip gloss. Apparently, according to Ashley, that's quite annoying. I'd just offered to kiss the lip gloss off for her. She'd almost slapped me for not taking her seriously. I'd grinned.

With a frustrated sigh, Jess swears under her breath.

"Want to go back?" I jab my thumb back at the car which I've just locked. Though what use that is when the doors are practically falling off already I don't know.

Jess resolutely shakes her head. "No," she says. "I'm not going back there."

Whatever hurdle she just jumped over by saying those words, there is a flicker of resolve in her features. Pride.

But in the case that she's maybe left more than her jacket - you know, like her purse, money and entire identity details - I'm hoping that the sentiment is purely metaphorical. As much as I'm oddly relieved that she phoned me, I could do without someone stealing her identity and having two Jessicas running around.

"Okay," I shrug before leading her towards the cafe, pushing the door open, almost walking in. And then I cringe and step back, letting her in before me. She gives me a passing look – an odd look that says _'When did you start opening doors?' –_ as she sweeps through the door before me. I let out a breath of relief as she slips into the cafe, before she can see me. I've been preparing for her to drop the facade and hound on me for one reason or another since she called me. It's just been a ticking time bomb.

She's just never been this... _nice_ since the incident. Well, then again, she wasn't particularly nice _before_ it either.

"Jess?" I hear Matt's distant voice jolt in the distance as the saucers on our table rattle.

I close the door behind me, the bell jingling, before turning the corner where I'd left Matt and Ashley to pick up Jess. Matt is standing on his feet within the booth, staring shocked and sheepish at Jess who is trying to hide her glare with a smile. Okay, so maybe I didn't exactly tell him where I was going. Or _why_ I was going. He had seemed a little out of it anyway to concentrate.

Ashley glances back at me helplessly. I shrug back dubiously. There's obviously something going on between them. I'm not going to volunteer to get involved.

"I see someone used the keys," Jessica finally says, clicking her heels towards the booth before scooting in beside Ashley. With big, surprised eyes, Ashley shuffles up to the side, allowed Jessica some room.

"Uh, yeah," Matt coughs, still not finding it comfortable enough to sit down again. Finding the atmosphere settled enough, I take the plunge and take my place at the booth as well, next to 'still standing' Matt. There's probably some inspiring number one hit with the same title.

Cautiously, Matt eyes Jess' unreadable eyes while his legs creak as he slowly sits down. "Actually," he coughs, scratching the back of his neck. "Some guy phoned me. Said the hospital had assigned him to... help me get my memories back."

I feel my mouth run dry, passing an anxious look across the table at Ashley. "He wasn't," I slowly mouth, my voice cracking at the back of my throat. "Dr. Hill, was he?"

Matt's eyebrows raise in surprise as his head shifts towards me. "How did you know?" he asks, his eyebrows dipping down again, knitting together.

I shake my head all too knowingly. "You'd be surprised," I mutter under my breath.

"Just," Ashley pipes up, her hand reaching out and pressing against the table inches from Matt's arm. "Don't trust him."

Jess and Matt both time their glances perfectly to lock onto Ashley, bewilderment and worry crossing both their features. I swallow. I suppose since I've already told Matt, Jess deserves to know as well.

"Listen," I part my lips, leaning forward. _Story time._

"Can't we sue him or something?" Jess stares resolutely at me.

I shrug. "Maybe you can," I mutter, glancing down at the now cold, bland coffee under my nose. "But we signed a contract."

"But," Jess scoffs, shaking her head. Over the past hour that we've been sat in this cafe, discussing how our lives have practically become public knowledge, Jess has relaxed. Just a bit. Last time, she wouldn't be seen dead speaking to us. I can't help but wonder what changed her mind.

But I don't risk asking.

"Surely that doesn't count," Jess makes her point, tapping the end of her pen against the scrap of paper in front of her – both things Ashley had donated to her. Ashley rarely goes without taking a pen and notepad with her. Apparently it's in case of a strike of inspiration. Ideas are always so _rude_. Never coming when you're prepared for them. "He made you sign it months – no, years, right? - after the stalking happened. You guys probably have a stronger case than any of the rest of us."

"When did you learn this kind of stuff?" Ashley glances in surprise at the other female, cocking her head. I have to cough and readjust my eyes before I start getting distracted by that red hair again. Especially where it strokes against the skin of her neck.

_Damn, Chris. Shut up._

Jess shrugs. Though I can see a kind of pride in her eyes. "Just something that's useful to know for the job."

"Maybe you should become a lawyer," I mutter aimlessly, pulling my gaze away from the girls to focus on Matt. He's a much safer sight to look at.

But by the way he's looking, it's probably not that safe inside his head. His dark skin is creased on his brow, his blue bruise pumping like a little heart, as his fingers trace the tattoo on his neck. "Why the hell do I have this?" he mumbles, confusion and irritation eating away at his features.

"Uh," I glance at the other girls for help. _Does he know? Should we tell him?_

Jess decisively shakes her head. It's not the right time yet.

I don't know if it ever will be.

Not when telling him means he might murder me.


	48. Interlude 8 - Mike, Ashley, Emily

**Mike**

"For the reasons of self defence," the Judge's jaw goes slack, almost like she can't believe what she's saying either. "Michael Munroe is pronounced not guilty and is acquitted of all crimes."

There isn't a single cheer in the building. Silence. Not even a stray ' _boo!'_ Everyone's eyes are just glazed over, their faces frozen like wax figures. Their gazes are still hovering over the television screen, where the clips were broadcasted. Unbelieving. Scared.

That's the _least_ of their worries.

Somehow she did it. Somehow Sam managed to get that video from wherever the hell Josh kept it, and convince the court to show it as evidence.

Mike's mouth is dry. It feels unreal. He had never expected this. He'd been hearing his _'Guilty'_ verdict over and over in his head. Seen Emily's eye explode from _his_ bullet. Had felt the walls of the prison closing in on him, locking him in there for a lifetime.

And now... somehow, he was _free_.

The prosecution had tried to pass it off as video editing. As some kind of special effect. Even then, he hadn't even sounded convinced of his own theory. There had been no energy in it. And Mike's lawyer had easily batted him down with the fact that the wendigos in the video, just before the house burned up, weren't glossy. Not like CGI. They were gritty and realistic and... the reactions were too real.

Beyond all logic, it had to be real.

Mike's lawyer claps him on the back, the only sound echoing in the hollow courtroom. "Congratulations," he whispers, trying a smile. But there's a kind of disconnection in his eyes.

And then a court guard appears, escorting Mike out of the room. Out to his freedom. And Mike looks up. Just for a second. Just at the crowd gathered in the pews of the courtroom, rigid and frightened. And there she is. _Sam_. Mike's hero. The tiniest smile on her lips, her eyes quivering with not-yet-fallen tears.

Someone should make her a cape.

* * *

**Ashley**

She eyes him from behind the doorway, watching him just out of sight.

"Do we really have to have him here?" Ashley pleads, her eyes bravely fleeting to Chris before locking back on Josh – just in case he moves. Just in case he turns into that psycho again.

Just in case he gets torn in half by a saw again.

"Sorry," Chris mumbles and Ashley feels him sneaking up behind her, resting his chin on her shoulder. Like he's trying to be sweet enough to be forgiven. "Sam needs us to make sure he doesn't," He sighs, pausing, "Do anything stupid."

"Like to try kill us?" Ashley scoffs, swivelling round to face her boyfriend, his body stumbling back as her shoulder almost hits his face. "Seriously, Chris, how can you trust him?"

"I didn't..." Josh's voice is like a whimper, a dog's howl.

Ashley's heart thumps, almost forgetting that he was still there.

He's like a dog. Like the wolf who was pried away from Sam – apparently, animals aren't allowed in a courthouse – and has insisted on not leaving Josh's legs. Ashley can't tell if they hate each other. Or if Josh was just a lost member of the wolf's pack. It would make sense.

He's an animal.

"I didn't want to hurt you," Josh mumbles, his eyes not disconnecting from the floor. "It was just... just for fun."

"Fun?!" Ashley snaps, billowing into the room. Chris has to leap forward and grab her by the waist to stop her from carving into Josh with her fists. "I thought I was going to _die_! I thought _Chris_ was going to die! I thought _you_ had _already_ died!" Her voice breaks as her energy kicks out from under her, leaving her a pile of mess on the floor. She covers her face with her arms and Chris tentatively crouches down beside her, carefully rubbing her back while his eyes refuses to move from Josh.

"Do you not think I wake up every morning thinking Chris will be gone? Or that it wasn't just some _prank_?!" She breaks down, tears sobbing from her eyes.

Josh's face crumbles. Did he ever mean it to go like this?

"I'm sorry," he mutters, his voice cracking.

There are no more words.

Yet. Somehow. Ashley feels just that little bit lighter.

* * *

**Emily**

Each step towards that light. Heavier. Like walking through thick, boggy water.

Energy pulling her back. Grabbing her hair. Her clothes. Her skin. Ripping. Yanking. Taking her back to the darkness.

 _No_. Not going back. Need relief. Need rest.

Need Matt. Need to give Matt the letter.

 _Someone!_ Give him the letter!


	49. Sam

"I need to see Matt," I'd told Chris on the phone.

The silence on the other end of the phone was evidently code for confusion. But then Chris had proceeded it with commenting that he was with Jessica.

"When did you guys get all chummy?" I'd chuckled, feeling my cheeks blush with a tinge of happiness. There had always been an underlying hope that all of us would bond again, mending whatever we'd lost. Jessica had distanced herself and Matt pushed us away with anger. But I'd always been clinging in there, waiting. Just in case.

I could almost hear Chris shrug through my phone. "Ask them." But I could tell that he too was glad for it. Maybe this body that we had been together was finally being sewn back as one. Even if the stitches were amateurish, thick and bulky. They'd still hold.

It had been just when I was about to hang up when Chris had dropped the bombshell.

Matt didn't know Emily was dead.

Way to go, Chris. Thanks for that info. Could have told me earlier.

The prospect of presenting a Matt who hated me with a letter from his dead girlfriend was scary enough. To face a Matt who's about to rediscover that his girlfriend _is_ dead? That makes me it even worse. I can't even imagine coping for two years after a tragedy like that – and then having to face that reveal again?

That is among the worst fates imaginable.

"Okay, Sam," I tell myself, stealing some confidence. I press my fingers against the letter in my pockets. I feel a heavy weight of responsibility over this. Like Emily has chosen me especially to give it to him. The burden grips my shoulders with led fingers before pushing me forward, the bell chiming as I push the door of the cafe open.

Apparently both Jessica and Matt had found some comfort in this place. I think the both of them were far too scared to go home. There were probably far too many bad memories in both those places for the both of them. Well, for one of them at least.

"Matt," I can hear Jessica's distant voice breathe. And I can hear nervousness shiver in the back of her throat.

Chris had texted me that the both of them were here. Apparently, Jessica had asked him to join but Chris had said that Ashley was ill and couldn't leave her. Obviously, that was a blatant lie. Jess didn't know Josh was with them, and Chris couldn't exactly advertise that fact. And I highly doubted Ashley would want to be left alone with the person she thought was going to kill her.

And yet. Somehow, for some bizarre reason, I don't feel that way. I think... I feel just that little bit _safe_ with him.

After everything he's done, that makes _me_ sound like the insane one.

"I have to tell you something," Jessica is saying as I pace further into the cafe, following her voice. Something surges in me, pushing me forwards. I have to reach them before she tells him. He can't find out like this.

"It's about Emily," Jessica sighs, and I can see them now, sitting in a far off booth. Her head is ducked as Matt is sat across from her, his eyes peering at her in confusion. And a kind of desperation.

"Wait!" The word is skimming out of my mouth before I can stop it.

Their heads turn rapidly towards us, both expressions mirroring each other. Surprised. Shocked.

In a second, I'm beside them, my hand quivering in my pocket. _Do it, Sam._ "You're not the one to tell him," I say quietly, flicking my gaze to Jessica. She looks startled. Not just startled. Unsure. Distrusting.

But she stays quiet anyway. Maybe it's not me she's distrustful of.

"Emily is," I nod, feeling a chip of that heavy weight lift from my shoulders. And I pull the letter out out of my pocket, carefully unfolding it and placing it in front of Matt.

I can hear Jessica's breath hitch as she watches it – watches him – as if she _knows_. Curiosity and suspicion pulls Matt's eyes towards the letter, his large hands plucking it up from the table.

And I watch, as his eyes skim each word, his expression crumble. And his eyes quiver with rebellious tears. And then his hands are shaking and his adam's apple bobs as he swallows down his tears. And he's reading over each word again and again, as if he's trying to fight off the truth. A battle in his mind.

"What happened?" his voice breaks as his eyes finally lift from the page. There are so many emotions on his face, twisted between his eyebrows. It almost makes me cry too. I have to fight to keep standing.

Jessica wordlessly shuffles up the booth and I sit down beside her. And then my hands are automatically reaching forward for Matt's. He flinches at my touch – but doesn't pull away.

And very slowly – very carefully, even with a stray tear dribbling down my cheek – I tell him.

Everything. In the way he'd deserved to know to begin with. Not a twisted, third-party view.

The truth.

And, one day, I hope he'll be able to forgive us. At least we'll have a chance this time.

* * *

"Where are we going?" Josh whispers beside my ear as I guide him across the road, keeping him close enough that his face will be covered by my body – just in case he forgets to keep his head down.

I force a smile on my lips. Despite the battle in my stomach. Despite my instincts fearing how he'll react. "Don't worry," I murmur, glancing for a second at his eyes. He looks so hopeful. So excited. Like we're going on a trip. A _date_. I don't want to let him down.

And I know that, even if he won't see it, this is the best thing for him. If I did anything else, I _would_ be letting him down.

"You're," Josh hums, trying his best to get used to the words. "So mysterious, Sammy."

"The way you like me." My banter is half-hearted. Like I'm on autopilot.

Josh doesn't notice. He lets out a gurgling laugh, drunkenly wiggling his eyebrows at me. The sad smile I return him with is real. He's so broken now. He's never just "Josh" anymore. He's "Josh the maniac who pranked his friends to death". He's "Josh who lost his twin sisters." He's "Josh who will never recover that chunk of himself that has been destroyed."

I think I've always been mourning for the Josh that was lost. There had never really been a funeral for him. But I've found a place for his grave inside my chest. Between my ribs and my heart.

"This way," I nonchalantly slip my fingers around Josh's wrists, just in case he bolts.

And then the police station comes into view.

Josh stiffens.

"Come on," I say as coolly as I can, despite my trembling pulse tugging at my veins, and swivel around to face him.

His eyes are frozen on the building, his muscles taut. He looks a mix of frightened and betrayed. And confused.

"I can't, Sammy," his voice breaks. His gaze goes unmoving. Never flinching from the building.

And then I automatically feel my arm reaching up and cupping the side of his face. For a second, I think I see him flinch. And then he gently allows my hand to guide his face to look at mine.

"Please, Josh," I beg. My eyes are pleading. Breaking. I hate to see that look in his eyes. The look of hurting. I want to stop this, want to just go back. Pretend I never had to do this. But I can't.

I can't just turn away. _That_ would be betraying him.

"For me?" I whisper, watching the hardness breaking away from his face, his skin.

Then he nods, his cheek gently leaning into my hand. His eyes are crumbling. But trusting. "Okay."

And, as a unit, as a team, we walk into that police station. Together.


	50. Chris

**Two Weeks Later**

_Okay, Chris. Just ask her._

My palms are sweating as my hand clasps around my cellphone heavily weighting down my pocket. Sam had texted me half an hour ago making sure I didn't chicken out this time. I just couldn't help it; I kept envisaging Ashley's face contorting in disgust, her words declaring, "Hell no." And I don't think I can take breaking what we already have – in case she's not ready. Yet Sam had insisted that Ash would _never_ say that. Apparently, it's clear that we're practically married already - we just need a ceremony and a pair of rings to make it official. Her words.

My cell phone buzzes in my hand, startling me, my shoulder jerking. Ashley glances back at me in bewilderment, her eyes asking ' _Are you okay?_ ' We're still treading on thin film here, only just feeling like we're allowed to actually enjoy ourselves. We're still cautious.

I smile stiffly, nodding. I know Ashley can sense something. She always can – I can never get away with anything under her nose. That will definitely be a trait of our marriage.

No. Chris, she hasn't even said _yes_ yet. You haven't even asked her yet!

As soon as Ashley turns her back again, refocusing her eyes on shopping mall stores surrounding us – it was the best cover I could come up with. "Let's go on a shopping trip!" Yeah, I would have stared at me funny too – I swivel on my heal, pull my cell phone out of my pocket in a swift of panic and flick the text open; _'Has she said yes yet?'_

Sam. Again.

I quickly thumb out, _'Give me time'_ , clicking send before pressing the power button, cutting the screen to black. If I didn't, I'm sure I'll be barraged by Sam declaring that _'You're gonna keep saying that until your 90.'_

But I'd _had_ to wait. Ashley wouldn't have been ready to be asked this kind of question back then. I wouldn't have been stable enough to _ask_ her. There had been too much going on. For one, there had still been a lot of backlash from the court jurisdiction last week. And let alone the situation with Dr. Hill.

That had pretty much taken up all our time. Even if the site with the photographs has been taken down, we can't Dr. Hill get away with what he's done. We'd desperately wanted to find a way to stop him from what he was doing to us – and we'd successfully found a way to sue him for stalking. But that had meant nothing when we had no money to even hire a lawyer. Somehow, Jessica was graced with angel wings and offered to pitch it - she'd just said she had a lot of useless money lying around - and that she owed us. Yeah, I was surprised too.

If we win the case, we'll be financially secure enough to pay off all our student bills and even get on to redecorating our apartment. And pay for a wedding.

That is, if Ashley says yes.

"Chris," she tugs at my wrist. I glance to her. She's got that enthusiastic glint in her eye and I know exactly what's coming. "Let's go in here." Her eyes lift up to her favourite bookstore. Excited anxiety tickles at my stomach, my hand gripping onto the handle of my satchel around my shoulder. This is what I'd planned to happen – I knew that she'd want to come here. It's pretty much her favourite place and I want my proposal to be one of her favourite moments. I want her to see this store and automatically remember the moment where she said yes to the best decision of her list.

But now it's here. Am I ready? Can I really get the words out? Are they really fully formed.

My clammy palms flex nervously, one of my hands gripping the strap of my satchel around my shoulder. I swallow. This is more than a bookstore. This is our future.

 _'Just do it, Chris,'_ I hear Sam's insistent voice in my head. She's even in my brain now. She gets everywhere. I secretly roll my eyes as if she's really here to see me before I capture just enough resolve and return my attention to Ashley. "Sure," I nod, smile, and follow her in.

"What about this one?" I swallow, trying to stop my hand from shaking as I pull out the hard backed book from my satchel and push it in Ashley's direction. We've been in the bookstore for about twenty minutes, browsing the shelves for interesting reading material. Ashley went straight to the fiction section. Her eyes had wandered over the Mystery/Thriller section where she used to scour for hours before the incident – the stories now all too real for her – before she directed her footsteps towards the romance section. An appropriate choice.

I've been keeping close to her, trying to steal enough courage to ask her. To say something. But every time, I'd moved my hands to open my satchel, my fingers had been shaking too much. My stomach had been trembling too much. My throat had been too tight.

Until now.

Ashley glances down at the book in surprise, cautiously taking it into her hands. I'd purposefully gone to a second hand bookstore and selected the most antique one I could find. One that I new Ashley would love. I knew she'd like the turquoise hew that glistened in the light on the dark, bronze-like cover. It had to be special. I want her to know that I wanted to make it special for her.

Ashley looks up at me with a weird look on her face. She's suspicious of me. "What?" I stick my hands in my jean pockets to stop them from shaking. My grin is more of a cringe. "Open it," I suggest with a shrug.

With her expression set in scepticism, Ashley carefully opens the cover. Her movements are in slow motion. My sweat at the back of my neck feels all too hot. My breaths feel all too heavy. I watch her hands move, inch by inch, revealing the contents of the book. I'm convinced she can hear my heart pounding in my chest, threatening to explode.

And there it is. A cut out hole in the centre of the book, with a glistening ring placed inside of it.

I can't feel anything. My eyes are locked on her, my fingers drumming against my pockets, fidgeting, impatient and anxious and frightened. Her eyes are fixed on the metallic ring, and I'm watching them change from shock to weeping to something else entirely undistinguishable. Something I'm scared will be a 'No'. And then her hands, in reflex, drop the book, hearing it clutter to the floor with a thump.

"Hey," I pull a smile on my face, trying to disguise my fear with humour. Though I don't think it's working. "That ring cost a lot money! I had to save up for age-"

Her lips smash against mine. I blink back, surprised, her arms flinging around my neck. And then, as if my body had always expected it – why it didn't tell my mind, I don't know – I'm slipping my hands down to her waist, closing my eyes and kissing her back.

Her lips are warm. A promise. An _answer._

"I suppose," I murmur as we break the kiss, our noses inches from each other, smiles equally as mischievous. "That's a yes then?"

Ashley bites her bottom lip in a wide smile before nodding.

A huge sigh of relief escapes my lips before I'm clasping my arms fully around her waste, bringing her into another kiss and swinging her around victoriously in my arms. I can't help but laugh. Even with the weight of Ashley in my arms, it is a hell of a lot lighter than the fear and anxiety I'd had only moments ago.

And then her feet connect with a shelf of books that proceeds to come hurtling to the ground.

"Oops," I grin sheepishly, glancing down at the mess before placing Ashley back on her feet.

Ashley's eyes glint with happiness and humour as they catch mine. "Maybe," she suggests with a smirk that I've missed. It's like she can't even stop smiling, "We should go?" She tugs at my arm and I glance back and forth at the shop assistants, just in case I get an angry glare in my direction. Then, with chuckles and giggles galore, we rush out the exit.

"Oh wait!" I dig my heels into the floor, stopping the both of us in our tracks. "The ring!"

With speedy reflexes, I drop her hand, promising her with a comical grin that I'd be right back, before hurrying back into the shop.

I swiftly scoop up the antique book, already containing the ring and shine a sheepish smile in the direction of the shop assistant coming to clean up my mess. "Nice weather," I cock a salute in her direction, before swivelling on my heels and rushing out like I was running from a wendigo.

And there she is. Ashley.

My future _wife_.

The sunlight through the shopping mall window glistens in her hair, like the sun itself painted it. Her cheeks are rosy and rich, highlighting the huge smile on her face. She's laughing at me. And I really hope that she'll keep doing that. As long as she's happy.

"I got it," I huff out a breath, grinning back at her.

And then, right there, we settle. We just look at each other, our eyes searching the other's like we always have. We don't need words. Not audible ones.

Slowly, carefully, I glance back down at the book, open it and pluck the ring out. Then I'm carelessly dropping the book and I'm reaching for Ashley's left hand. "Ashley?" I ask slowly, my breath hitching with smiles instead of nerves. She looks so hopeful and excited up at me. Like she's about to burst. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes!" She cheers.

With a huge grin that is probably going to break my face, I slide the ring along her delicate ring finger. "It fits," I mutter, excitement bubbling in my stomach. Ashley's eyes glint and I think she's crying. "How did I manage that?" And then I'm scooping her back up in my arms again, feeling her heartbeat close to mine.

This time we're going to do it right. This time we're going to have a happy ending.


	51. Sam

My cellphone buzzes in my pocket. The grass underneath my feet crunches as I halt, pulling out my cellphone to reveal a photo attachment of Chris with his arm around Ashley and her left hand proudly displaying the ring, two huge grins on their faces. It is accompanied with the caption; _"She said YES!"_

"Dorks," I chuckle to myself, feeling the warmth of the sun radiating off the skin of my face, before I thumb out " _Congrats ;)"_ and pressing send.

"Sam?"

My smile startled off my lips, I glance up, catching a glimpse of Mike with his hands stuffed in his pockets just as I'm tackled with a lump of a body and tumble to the ground. My back hits the grassy ground of the park with a thump, the wind huffing out of me. "Hey, Wolfie," I puff out through laughs, feeling the wolf sniff around my face as his tail thumps back and forth in a wag. My fingers find their way up to his neck, giving him a well deserved scratch behind the ears. "How you been, buddy?"

"I've been great, thanks," Mike muses and I smirk, pushing my head away from Wolfie's wet nose far enough to catch the man's silhouetted figure caught in the glistening, midday sun.

"I wasn't asking you," I retort with a smile, gently guiding Wolfie's heavy body off me and heaving myself to a sitting position.

Mike rolls his eyes before leaning down and offering his hand to me. I gladly take it, fitting my hand in his, and feeling Mike effortlessly pull me up to my feet.

"You don't know how refreshing that is," he thinks aloud as I brush grass stains from the back of my jeans. I glance up at him in a question. "Not to have somebody look at me like I'm a murderer."

There's a thin skin of something hidden behind his eyes; a thought that is convinced he _is_ a murderer. I think he'll always be haunted with that feeling of pulling that trucker and hearing it's harrowing click. But he's moving on. He's not alone.

I crouch down to give Wolfie another pat. He's got Wolfie. And he's got me. And someday Chris will be able to move past that incident with Ashley in court - but I think he's on the verge of forgiving Mike.

I don't expect Matt to come around any time soon. But he's definitely better with Mike than he was before. At least there's an improvement. I hope it'll get better – I hate being in a the tense, dense atmosphere when they're in the same room together.

And then there's Jess - she's been very slowly integrating herself in with us. Not openly, but we'll invite her out to get coffee or check out a film in the cinema, and she'll reluctantly accept. Though, deep down, I can tell that she's happy for it.

She's been trying to lay low, hiding away from the public eye - but hanging with us isn't exactly the best strategy for that. The video released during the trial at court was eventually released through media as police evidence. And since then, it's pretty much become viral. Everyone is suddenly aware of these creatures that exist in the world - whether they debate on it being faked or not - and my blog has had a huge increase in views. It's hard to keep up.

But, without even planning it, I succeeded. The world _knows_. It can't escape or disprove the truth anymore. There were no words needed, no long winded blog posts or the perfect words. Just a video and a trusty prison escapee.

"It'll get better," I assure Mike, stretching back to my feet. He shifts his shoulders, uncomfortable, but he seems to take me at my word. "One day they'll forget."

Mike nods, avoiding my eyes. "Are you really going to see him?" He asks, lifting his head and squinting at me through the sunlight.

I sigh. "I have to, Mike."

"But-"

"You have no say in this," I warn him with my eyes. I know he's worried about me but I can't be the abandoner now. Josh deserves more than that. Even if he hasn't noticed, he's given me more than I ever deserved from him. "And besides, when _you_ in prison, I didn't abandon you."

Mike exhales, knowing I'm right. "Fine," he says with a gruff voice, tapping the side of his thigh to call Wolfie to heal. The wolf gladly obeys, heartily ready to please his master. It makes me smile to see them together again. Even if that means I have to say goodbye. I didn't realise how much I'd miss Wolfie until I took him to Mike as soon as he was let out of prison and adjusted back to fresh air. _Free_ air. It felt lonely in my apartment now, without the pattering of Wolfie's paws against the wooden flooring, or Josh's shifting restlessness in his sleep. The sound of my tapping on the keyboard is now far too loud for the hollow, empty space of my apartment.

"But be careful," Mike eyes me, his features pulled into a grimace.

A breathy laugh escapes my laugh. "I will," I smile, feeling my lungs inhale air to settle my bubbling nerves. "You know me."

* * *

"You came," Josh's face lights up as I sit in the seat opposite, the receiver pressed to his cheek, our bodies separated with a sheet of glass.

"Of course I did," I muse with a smile, though my eyes don't lift up enough to meet his gaze. My eyes are just far too heavy. They hold too much now. "Who do you think I am?"

Josh's cheeks bulge as he grins, his eyes narrowing mischievously. "Sammy," he says plainly, his tongue darting out of his mouth to wet his bottom lip. Then he adds, "Sammy is mine."

For a second, my heart freezes. Stops beating, the beeping of the heart monitor ceasing to a long blare of a sound. My eyes snap to his, shocked. I can't tell if he's serious or if he's just kidding, his eyes shimmering with an alive kind of enthusiasm. I don't know whether I _want_ him to be serious.

"You wish," I mumble, my lips tugged into a smile. But my voice is quiet, no energy in it.

Josh looks at me. His eyes watch me like he's studying me. Then, slowly, he lifts his hand up and presses his palm up against the glass. I look at it for a minute. The lines and veins on his skin. The things that make him _Josh_.

Slowly, I lift my hand up, grazing my fingertips along the glass where his hand is pressed on the other side. I can almost feel the sensation of his skin tickling mine.

"When I get out of here," he hums, his voice crackling through the receiver, his eyes watching our hands. "Let's go some place. Just the two of us."

My breath hitches in my throat. I can feel my heart crash into my ribs, my fingers tingling. I don't know how I even want to answer that. A part of me tugs at my heart, tempting me. And then the other half... it's scared. It's unsure. It has claimed Mike's voice, warning me to be careful.

I can't say yes to Josh. Not when I can't afford to give him every part of me.

"We'll see, Josh," I smile, pulling back my hand from his, unable to hide the sadness in my eyes. He watches my hand, dropping it seconds after I move mine, the sound of his thumping against the table on his side. Like the sound of his heart. "We'll see."


	52. Jessica

I've been hovering outside this door for what feels like hours. The shadowy breeze whistles eerily through the hollow stairwell, like the cry of a creature, an echo of a screech. I shiver. Yet I just can't seem to conjure up the courage to knock on the door – to go in. Despite everything, despite their words of forgiveness, I'm still terrified I'll be rejected – something surely well deserved for every time I've rejected them. As soon as there is a single flicker of hope, it is immediately dragged down by inky black claws.

 _Okay, Jess_. I talk myself into it, closing my eyes and taking a breath. And I take one step forward, a positive step. But then fear strikes me again and I'm freezing on the spot, quickly retracting it. Helpless. Frightened. My hands can't help but cling to each other, clammy palms and fingers caught in between.

"Need help?"

My heart almost snaps out of my chest, a puff of air kicking out of me. I'm spinning my eyes around to catch the direction of the gruff voice, meeting with the figure of Tag standing beside me with his hands stuffed in his pockets and a bittersweet glint in his eyes. I didn't even hear his footsteps or feel him appear.

"Tag," I splutter, catching my breath. My heart is pounding from the shock and I have to physically rest my palm to my chest to be able to breathe. Tag is strangely silent beside me, the feeling of his gaze like a burning laser on my body. It studies me, looking through the the thin layers of my skin. Searching. Like he understands me but, at the same time, never has. I recoil. The silence unsettles me, making me want to just slap so that he'll say _something_.

And then Chris' words stab my mind - _"He_ had _no sons"_ (how had I even for _gotten_ about that?) - and I'm swivelling my whole body around to face Tag, hands hooked at my hips. "Who even _are_ you?"

Tag drops his gaze like he's lost all energy. And he looks weak, hazy, not fully there. "You have to understand, Jessi-"

"Understand _what_?"

He lifts his heavy eyes to look at me. "Why I did what I did."

Before I can even ask what he's referring to, he lets out a sigh and runs empty fingers through his dark hair. "I needed- the world needed to know about..." He shakes his head, his voice bitter around the next words. "The wendigos." It doesn't look like it tastes good in his mouth.

"So?" My voice is tight in my throat, thumping and throbbing. I can't even tell where this is going. And I can't tell if I'm even scared of him. I feel more curious than anything. Like my eyes are searching for something buried deep underneath his skin.

"I couldn't do it myself," he shrugs, his gaze not meeting mine. "So I had to do it some other way."

My eyes are questions, narrowing at him and waiting for him to continue. For some reason, his skin looks darker here. Maybe it's the low light. But it's more shadowy, more misty. Like all his edges have been blurred, rubbed out by an eraser. "I coaxed Sam into going for that video. It was the easiest way for the world to see the truth. And," he pauses to scratch the side of his face and for a second, it's like the skin has disappeared. And there's nothing there. Like he's just pulled away a part of himself. I blink, squeezing my eyes shut. Open. It's normal. "I knew she'd search for it if she knew it would help Mike in his trial."

Tag lets out a gruff, humourless laugh.

"And then Dr. Hill's _stunt_ was interfering," Tag rolls his eyes, his head shaking to the beating of my heart. It almost audibly echoes in the hollow stairwell, bouncing against the cemented walls. "I'd used it as a way to transfer messages to Sam but I think she and the others freaked out a bit too much. So I figured you all deserved to know the truth. Plus, you were all beginning to think that _I_ was the stalker." I almost scoff. Like Tag had never done that before. He definitely looked like the type.

Tag sighs. "I tried Matt first. But he was too drunk to figure anything out. So I sent you to find that newspaper clipping and figure it out for yourself. But seriously," he rolls his eyes, finally lifting them up to look me down. "What took you so _long?_ " Which is why I roped Ashley and Chris in. _That_ hit the jackpot."

"Who are you?" My voice acts on it's own accord, shocking me. I can feel my words shiver in my throat. I don't think I want to know the answer to that question.

His eyes meet mine. And we're both silent for a while. And for the first time, I notice the wrinkles lined underneath his eyes and at the corner of his lips. It's like he's been ageing more and more every time I've seen him. Like he's been using up energy, ever so slightly shrivelling up.

"Jack," he says quietly, gruffly.

My heart stops. "Like... Jack _Hunt_?"

Not-Tag nods sharply.

"But, he's _dead_?" My voice breaks. My forehead creases with the weight of my confusion. Then I mutter, "And a whole lot older."

Tag-turned-Jack shrugs. "Apparently, I lucked out as a ghost," he looks down at his hands, like he's studying them. "I manifested in my younger self. Pretty handsome, right?" Half of his mouth quirks up as a grin.

I almost shove him, rolling my eyes. "Get over yourself," I joke. But my voice falls flat. Tag... is a _ghost_?! How had I never seen it before? He'd seemed to enjoy popping up whenever he pleased, and then disappear in the same way. I guess, no matter how many wendigos I can believe in, ghosts will never be my thing.

Tag-turned-Jack flickers for a second, like an old television screen losing connection. "My time's almost up," he says low under his breath. He's fading. And I can almost see through to the wall behind him.

His eyes lift up to meet mine. My breath catches. I don't know how I missed the long scar running across his neck. Or maybe it had never been there before.

"Goodbye, Jessica," he says with the last of his strength and he looks less and less visible with every second. And for a brief moment, I'm convinced he looks like glass. And then he fizzles out completely.

And he's gone.

"Bye, Tag." I don't even care if that's not his name. To me, it is. It's how I knew him. And no matter how much of a dick he was at times, I don't think I'll ever forget him.

Gathering up the strength that he lost, I push myself forward and knock on the door of Chris and Ashley's apartment.

The door opens to blast me with a chorus of noise. The distance hums of joyful music and cheers meet my ears, the sound of clinking glasses and laughter. And the doorway filling figure of Mike.

"Jess?"

"Mike," my voice catches in my throat. I haven't seen him since he was released. In all honesty, I'd been avoiding it. Any words of apology have been mangled, unsaveable. They never seem to be enough. Always just words.

Mike looks at me for a long moment – a moment far too long – before his lips are tugged into the slightest hint of a smile. "Good to see you."

"You too," I breathe, worried my words don't sound genuine. Then he's stepping back, inviting me in. Cautiously, I step through the doorway, my heels clicking on the wooden floorboards. There were just some parts of my old life I couldn't leave behind.

"Who is it?" I hear Chris' slurred voice call out from the living room, followed by indistinct laughter.

"It's Jess!" Mike calls back, clicking the door closed. He turns to me, offering out his hands. "Want me to take your jacket?"

For a minute, I want to refuse. Use it as an excuse for me to leave soon, to escape easily. But I mentally scold myself and slowly peel my arms from my jacket, handing it over to Mike.

"Thanks," I mutter, trying to offer him a smile.

"It's all good," he shrugs, taking it to the nearby coat rack and hanging it up with the others. I can immediately recognise Sam 's jacket – and Matt's. "Keeps me busy."

"You're not getting involved?" I nudge my head in the direction of the living room and the laughter.

"Nah," Mike sighs, shaking his head, his thick shoulders shrugging. "Trying to keep my distance from Matt. He's not so... keen on me at the moment."

"I wouldn't be either," I joke, feeling a flicker of the relationship we once had fizzle between us. His eyes meet with mine and I can see the appreciation of my humour in his. For a moment, I regret giving him up. He was good to me, constantly making sure I was alright. Making sure I knew he was there for me. He'd saved my life. More times than once.

But it feels good. Just this moment. It feels promising, like we can restore something of the mutual understanding between us. And I'm not pining after him. I feel no aching in my heart to want him back.

I feel like that space has already been filled by someone else.

A lump of a body thumps into the living room door frame and both sets of our eyes snap towards it. "What are you guys doing?" Chris' brow creases before he's grinning. "Come on, there's gonna be a speech!"

And then he stumbles back into the room. Mike and I pass glances before we're being pulled in by cheers from agreeing Sam and Ashley.

"Okay, okay," Chris takes the stage in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. I find myself attracted to the room, stepping in further as Mike hangs back beside the hallway door frame. Sam glances up from a nearby sofa, smiling happily at me and reaches out to hand me a freshly poured champagne glass. I find myself smiling back, taking the cool glass in my hand. For the first time, I'm sure that her smile is genuine.

"Who's doing the speech?" Chris slurs, then breaks it with a wide, cheesy smile. "Oh, it's me!" A groan spreads across the room, unappreciative of Chris' drunken jokes. I think he's had too much champagne.

"Oh, boo!" Chris jeers jokingly, pulling Ashley up from her seat and hooking his arm around her waist. She lets out a gasp before it evolves into a giggle. And Sam perks up a chant of, "Speech speech speech speech!" which is generously joined with Mike behind me. And even Matt in the armchair to the corner of the room.

And then me. My voice works on it's own accord, hearing it join in with the cheers. And I'm smiling. It's been so long since I felt like I belonged somewhere – like I belonged _here_. And these people, my _friends_ have managed to make me feel that effortlessly.

"Fine fine," Chris pretends to give in, before raising his champagne glass and proclaims, "To my beautiful wife- whoops!" He grins, pretending to slip up as Ashley glares at him. But I can see the humour, love and pure _adoration_ in her eyes. It's like she can't stop gazing at him. "My soon-to-be wife! To everyone here. We couldn't have done it without you." He clinks his glass with Ashley

My eyes skim the room. Appreciating the realness of the people here. The acceptance. The diversity. Sam has never once been the anti-hero. Despite my twisted up fears, I know she'd never turn anyone down. She'd never abandon anyone.

Mike – he'd broken every rule I'd created. But he'd never once given up. He'd always been fighting for something. Once, fighting to save me. Then, fighting to free himself. And now, fighting for a life. One I hope he'll eventually let me be a part of – or I'll be able let myself be a part of.

And Chris. He was more supportive than he probably knows. Each smile, each reassuring word had pulled me back. He had been there when I most needed him. And Ashley had been that to him. I'm sure he wouldn't be the man he is today without her.

And I wouldn't be the woman I am now without Matt. He'd been shoved at me, a drunken mess. And then had pulled me into a whirlwind of lost memories and frustrated tears. And we'd clung to each other. We'd been so close.

Across the room, my eyes meet his. It's like a sizzling of electricity. An understanding. He smiles. My lips tug in the same direction. It's like we're touching hands across the room. Nothing can break the connection between us, like a thick, intertwined cord.

"And to Josh," Sam chimes, a nostalgic smile on her face.

"To Josh," Chris agrees, his lips settling into a more wistful, real smile. For a moment, it's second of realisation, of remembering. And then it's morphing into one of humour again. "Who'll probably wind up back in prison as soon as he gets out!"

Another round of glasses clinking against each other.

Then silence covers us.

"And to Emily," my voice breaks as it cuts through the silence. All eyes turn to me. Shock, surprise and then acceptance dawns on the faces of all those watching me. "It isn't the same without her."

"To Emily," the words ripple across the room. There's a moment of remembering. A meaningful forgiveness. A time that matters.

And as the voices begin to swim around the room again, slowly bustling with conversations and swinging of alcohol, my eyes lift up to the ceiling. I never thought I'd be thinking this but, wherever she is, I hope she's looking down on us and smiling.

Or, at the very least, complaining that she didn't get to taste the champagne.

I lift my glass up and smirk. It's not very good champagne anyway.


	53. Interlude 9 - Emily

**Emily**

It's gone. The weight, the pull. It's empty. Silent.

The warmth of light washes over her. A waterfall of glistening shimmers. Drawing her closer.

Breathe. _Breathe_.

It's over.

He knows. Matt knows.

The light swells. So close. So close to swallow her.

Just step forward. Step into it.

"Shall we do it together?" A gruff voice. Beside her. She looks.

A man. Dark skin. Ageing skin, wrinkles growing. Young yet old.

His eyes. She recognises them. From behind goggles, behind a mask, she has seen them.

Somewhere, deep down, she knows him.

She nods.

They take one step. And two. Until the light envelopes them. Together.

Peace.


	54. Epilogue

The man behind the all too familiar desk coughs uncomfortably. "Firstly, Sam," he says, clasping his hands on top of the desk in front of him. "I'd like to _apologise_. What was said last time turned out to be... unfair."

I smile smugly, raising my eyebrows at him from across the desk. A look that says, _'You don't say.'_

"The results of the trial were certainly," He pauses to adjust his glasses on the bridge of his nose, his eyes coincidentally avoiding my eyes. "Unexpected."

I nod complacently, as if it were all my doing. Maybe I'm taking a little too much pride in the fact that Mike was freed because of me. I know that he wouldn't have gotten the verdict that he did – but I really can't take all the credit.

 _Josh._ If he hadn't been there, maybe I wouldn't have found the disc in time. Maybe I _never_ would have found it. Ironically, it had been Josh who had kept me sane through that whole experience – revisiting the place where we almost died. And I'd been watching him drowning even further in insanity.

Or maybe he had always been that way.

"I've got ten of my employees already reporting and researching about these," the man coughs as if he is still uncomfortable with the word in his mouth, "Wendigos." He finally meets my strong gaze with his restless one – it's almost like the roles are switched this time around. "They could really do with your input."

Josh has been doing a lot better though, now that he's found himself back in the stable environment of prison. At least I now know that he's back on his meds and his psychological treatment. His retrial is soon. Part of me really hopes that he'll get found not guilty of the arson because of the video. It's funny how he thought he was looking for the video for Mike – for me – and it might very well be the ticket _he_ needs to gain his freedom. The other part of me is scared for that. He's safe in prison. His mind isn't lost, isn't bombarded there. His memories won't be attacking him there.

I don't know if I want him free or not.

"Let me make this clear, Samantha," the man says, taking off his glasses and folding them in front of him. "I'm offering you a _job_."

A job. What I had always wanted. To work for a newspaper – and for the New York Times no less! It would give me a huge readership that I haven't managed to reach out to yet. It would open so many opportunities for me.

"Yeah," I smile, my lips drawn tight. "I got that."

He blinks back at me. As if he'd been expecting me to squeal with delight.

I don't need this opportunity any more.

"But I'll kindly decline," I shoot a smug smile in his direction.

He stares at me, disbelief in his eyes set in his eyes. I'm pretty sure his jaw almost dislocated right now and fell off his face.

"I can do _much_ better than this," I conclude, pushing myself off the chair. "Thank you for your time."

And then I spin on my heel and stride out the door.

I figure the New York Times newspaper is far too... _mediocre_ for me. I mean, why not a book deal? A TV show?

I chuckle.

Maybe a video game?


End file.
